





GILLESPIE 


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GILLESPIE 


BV 

J. MACDOUGALL HAY 

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“He that is greedy of gain, troubleth his own house.” 

The Proverbs 


NEW YORK 

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


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TO 

NEIL MUNRO 



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AAOi W 





GILLESPIE 


CHAPTER I 


BOOK I 


Somewhat by east of the bay two of the Crimea 
cannon, each on a wooden platform, lifted to seaward 
dumb mouths which once had thundered at Sevastopol. 
A little west of the derelict guns, and almost at the end 
of the shore-road, stood a gaunt two-storeyed house. Its 
walls were harled, its gables narrow and high, and its 
plain windows, whitened in winter with sea-salt, gave it 
the appearance of an old high-browed lady, with her white 
hair tightly drawn back from her forehead. This house, 
at the root of the hills, bleached with the gales of 
centuries, and imminent upon a beach of gravel, had a 
sinister appearance. From a distance one was infected 
with a sense of austere majesty at first sight of the house. 
It came as a discovery, nearer hand, that it was the tall 
gables which produced this effect. Attention, however, 
was attracted, not to the gables, but to a sign which hung 
over the door. Dimly traced on this heart-shaped sign 
was the half -defaced head of a man, and a hand grasping 
a dagger. The hand stabbed down with sleuth-like 
malignity. The place had once been an inn and of con- 
siderable repute; but horror came to nest there in the 
inscrutable way in which it attaches to certain places. 
Two men had come up from the sea in the dusk, and put 


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in for the night at the inn. His wife being sick, Alastair 
Campbell went up in the morning to rouse the men. He 
found one of them lying on his back on the floor 
as if sunk in profound meditation. A bone handle rested 
on his left breast. 

“ Clare tae Goad,” said Campbell, “ I thought it was 
the dagger o’ the sign above the door. A cold grue 
went doon my back.” The slain man, one-eyed, with 
a broad black beard, was a Jew. His pockets had been 
rifled. The hue and cry was raised, but the tall, swarthy 
fellow had vanished even more completely than the dead 
man, where he lay nameless in the south-west corner of 1 
the graveyard. 

Fear fell upon the inn. It was named the “ Ghost.’’ ; 
The painted dagger seemed to grate aloft when the wind 
blew. Campbell took to drink, and used to wander 
through the house at night, candle in hand. His wife 
became worn, watching him, and, always ailing, died 
within the year on child-bed. It came to this at last that 
her husband sat in the bar all day drinking with every 
wastrel, and too sodden at nightfall to make a reckoning. 
He roved the rooms, shouting with terrible blasphemy on 
a concealed left-handed devil to come out and show him- 
self. Fishermen sailing past said that they saw lights 
dancing about the rigging of the “ Ghost ” in the grey of 
dawn. Soon all the bottles in the bar were emptied. 
Campbell’s comrades from the town dropped off, and the 
scavengers who remained held the pewter measure be- 
neath the tap as Campbell tilted up each barrel in turn. 
Of all that he had done, of all that had happened to him I 
in his downfall and degradation, this was the most pitiable. I 
“ This is the last nicht, my he’rties,” he cried, tilting 
up the last barrel. Without the sign creaked ominously 
in the scuffling wind. “ Hark to it ! ” he yelled ; “ the 
bloody dagger’s speakin’. Here’s to it;” and with an 


GILLESPIE 


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oath he held the tankard to his mouth. His bloodshot 
eyes rolled in his inflamed face. “ By Goad, boys, I’ll 
fire the hoose ower my heid and burn oot the bloody 
Spaniard.” The scavengers stamped out the fire, and 
carried him upstairs to the bed of the room where he had 
discovered the Jew lying on the floor, sunk in eternal 
meditation. He kicked and screamed in mortal terror, 
the veins standing out on his brow like whip-cords, and 
the sweat drenching his face. In the midst of a scream 
he clapped his hands to his head and heaved upon the 
bed, and the room became suddenly quiet with the 
dumbness that follows a thunderclap. Campbell had 
taken a shock. The coyotes at his bedside held the 
tankard to his twisted mouth; the liquid trickled im- 
potently down over his chin, and they knew that he was 
done. At the turn of the night Campbell joined hands 
with the bearded Jew, and together they went into the 
Shadow to look for retribution on their maimed and 
scarred lives. 

Through the night the creaking of the sign without was 
as the rattling of Death’s skeleton keys. 


CHAPTER II 


Richard Glamis Strang bought the inn. Nobody 
else would bid for such a nest of bad odour. Mr. Strang, 
untainted with the supernatural of the West Highlands, 
was young and about to marry. He had established 
himself in Duntyre. He was not a native of these parts, 
having sailed from the Heads of Ayr, where his folk had 
been ling-fishers. For a year he had lived penuriously, 
like a Viking, in the fo’c’sle of one of the derelict smacks 
heeled on the beach, and took to the herring fishing. He 
wore a thin silver chain twisted round his neck in a double 
loop. Its ends disappeared with a heavy silver watch 
beneath his oxter. Over his jersey he wore a waistcoat 
lined with red flannel, which peeped abroad at the arm- 
pits. Only in the coldest weather did he wear a jacket. 
A hardy, tall, weather-beaten man with a stoop, taciturn 
and slow of speech, whose large hands gripped like steel. 
His eyes, grey and keen as blades, were seated in those 
depths which sea- vigil digs in the head of man. He 
took the sea in his little boat, working his lines during the 
winter, and in the spring he sold her to a boat-hirer, and 
offered money down for a share in a fishing-boat. He told 
the crew he had come from Ayr to found a home in the 
west. He was accepted ; his skill recognised ; his seaman- 
ship became a matter of wonder. None in the fleet could 
steer as he by the weather-ear. He went upon his own 
ground unquestioned, till on a Saturday night at the 
“Shipping Box,” a Macdougall, a red-haired, vitriolic man, 
half drunk, called him by an indecent name, saying he 

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was a Lowland interloper. A strain of Irish blood in 
Mr. Strang surged up into his pale face, and his eyes 
glittered like swords upon the little red man, who mouthed 
at him. 

“ Come on,” he spluttered. “ Dae ye ken who I am ? 
I’m the man that boiled a kettle in the lee o’ a sea. Come 
on, ye Ayrshire bastard, I’ll show ye the wy tae fush 
herrin’.” 

A plump smack sounded abroad, and the Macdougall 
went down under the palm of Mr. Strang. A laugh from 
some twenty salt-hardened throats burst boisterously on 
the fallen hero’s ears. 

“ Dived like a solan, Erchie,” some one cried; and the 
Macdougall rose, his coward heart fluttering in fear. 

“ By the jumping Jehosiphat ! ” he cried, “but you’re 
a man,” and put forth his hand. Mr. Strang took it and 
nodded. 

“ We’re aye learnin’, Erchie, to work to windward,” 
he said with a quiet smile. 

Thus was he enlarged upon the imagination of men. 
Thus do men found the pillars of their house upon clay, 
rust, and mire. 

He fell in love with one of the girls of the town, a 
Macmillan, lissom, white as milk, red as the dawn, with 
an eye for mirth and an abundance of sympathy — a trusty, 
wise mate. He had been reared in an iron school ; bred 
to the sea with nerves of steel informed against the 
chances of gales, the darkness of fogs, the welter of snow- 
showers. He had the sailing lore by rote; and putting 
no store by anything but his business in the waters, 
neither legend nor superstition, took the inn at an easy 
rate, made some alterations, but left the sign above the 
door, where on surly nights it swung and groaned as if 
lamenting the weird upon the ill-fated house. On 
tempestuous winter nights of the first year of their wedded 


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life, when they sat in the stone-flagged kitchen, her tales 
of the countryside came upon him, not with the stuff of 
surprise, but of magic. She had fed on oral romance and 
was its herald, proclaiming to him the deeds of her an- 
cestors of Knapdale, and their mad ploy on the play- 
ground of half the county. Outside the seas thundered 
and clawed the beach; the old sign of the faded head 
mourned and jabbered; the sea-fowl screamed over the 
roof; and the house shook to the hammers of the gale. 
To the man the Lord of Hosts was abroad upon the air, 
and the wings of His angel troubled the deep. 

The whole thing was so different from the sordid life 
of an Ayrshire fishing -port, which had no leisure and little 
inspiration for romance in its pale flat lands, that his 
life became clothed upon with wonder, and he lived in a 
world with more in it of magic than of reality. He sat 
under the elusive deft hands of a seer, who wove upon him 
a garment rich with pearls and shone upon with a haunt- 
ing light, here and here alluring and splendid ; but there 
also stained with the shadows of what was grim, terrible, 
and foreboding. He could not feel himself sib to this 
glancing wife. This strange food of reality for her had 
always been to him the thinnest stuff of dreams — things 
he had heard of vaguely, things so improbable and in- 
tangible in a world of deep-sea lines and strife with winds, 
tides, and piratical dog-fish that scarcely the phantom of 
their ghostly presence had passed upon the face of his 
seaboard. Now he heard them, plucked from the life 
of a people, and chanted as their gospel by a girl who 
crept close to him, shivering at the sadness of her tale. 
As the sea without droned the antiphon, and the homeless 
wind upon the hill cried the antistrophe, he thought it 
was a wilding elfin thing he loved who was one with the 
witch-wind upon the waste, and with the changeling 
brumous sea. At the end of the tale, as a dog that is half 


GILLESPIE 


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drowned shakes the water from its pelt, he shook himself 
free from an undefined sinister influence. 

One evening, when dark-bluish shadows lay upon the 
snow, she had been telling tales of olden bickerings — how 
one of her race had been hanged by the Duke of Argyle 
from the tall mast of his galley within the harbour there 
at the west end of the Island ; of one that had been out 
in the ’45 and had fled the country to France, and had 
married there — there was a strain of French blood in her 
veins ; of another that had come out of the foreign wars 
limping under the weight of a major’s commission, and 
had found his grave in the lee of Brussels at Waterloo ; 
and then suddenly veered to an ancient tale of a heroine 
of her race who had slain her son to save her lover. She 
ceased talking. Her husband looked at her with simple 
level eyes. In the silence they heard the cry of wild 
geese high up in the sky — the ghostly birds, instinct- 
driven, passing as the arrow of God through the heavens 
to their decreed place. 

“We are driven by something deep within us that we 
have got from our ancestors, to do strange things that 
were allowed in their age, but are unlawful now,” she said. 
“ Honk ! Honk ! ” vibrant and clear as a bell it rang out 
high over the snow in response — the bugling of birds borne 
along by the “ something deep ” within them — and was 
heard by these frigate-birds, a man and a woman, sitting 
facing one another in the pitiable belief that they, alone 
of all God’s creatures, can stem the call of destiny. 

She told of her who had slain her son to save her lover, 
and of the terrible doom that rested on the name ever 
since, and was not yet fulfilled, that fratricide, parricide, 
or matricide would yet stain their house and open the 
ancient scar again before the house and name perished 
for ever. 

“ Oh, my dear, dear husband, if the doom should 


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fall on you or on our children ! ” She lifted a scared 
white face searchingly to his. Alas ! that every evangel 
must have behind it a doom. 

“ I vowed again and again never to marry to escape 
it ” — a faint smile stole across her serious face — “ but 
love for you compelled me. Oh, Dick ! Dick ! ” she 
wound her arms about his neck, “ you love me, don’t 
you ? tell me again that you do. Our love must keep the 
doom at bay.” 

He struggled back again to the place of reality from 
that twilit land to which she had led him. He was vexed 
with her imagined woe. 

“ Doom be blowed,” he cried; “ it’s as dead as a red 
herring.” 

“Oh, Dick ! Dick ! ” she visualised the haggard 
spectre riding the back of her house ; “ you must love 
me to fight it. You do, don’t you ? ” 

“ As weel as I love my mother, lyin’ i’ the mools o’ Ayr 
Kirkyaird,” he answered solemnly. 

She held up her mouth to him. 

“ Mary,” he adjured her, “ the time’s gane by for ony 
mair nonsense o’ thae olden times. Doom be hanged. 
Wha’s tae kill either you or me ? We’re mairrit eighteen 
months lucky, an’ hae nae waen yet.” 

“ I’d like to have a baby, a wee girlie ; but I’m afraid, 
terribly afraid.” 

He jumped to his feet, flushed and angry. 

“ Feart o’ an auld wife’s story.” 

“ Hush, Dick, hush ; even this house isn’t canny. 
There’s a curse on it. Do you hear it ? That creaking 
sign scares the life out of me at nights, when you’re at 
the fishing. I can’t sleep for listening to it.” 

He clapped his two big hands together. 

“ Doon it comes noo ; where’s the hammer ? ” 

He searched, but could not find it. 


GILLESPIE 


9 


“ Never mind, Dick,” her eyes followed him through 
the kitchen; “ you can take it down in the morning.” 

But in the morning the frost had frozen the wind, and 
Dick was gone to shoot “ the big lines ” ten miles away 
on the Nesskip banks. The sign was forgotten ; and the 
wild geese had passed on unerringly, unquestioningly, on 
the path of destiny. 


CHAPTER III 


Six months later Richard Strang came to face something 
that was elemental. His wife was pregnant. As she 
became heavier with child he deserted his work to comfort 
her, but could not drive away her fear. 

“ Pray God it’s a girl ; a girl can do no harm ; ” and 
again she harped on the ancient tale, and summoned up 
the black rider that rode with such sinister menace on 
its back. 

“Mary,” he cried, fumbling impotently with his hands, 
desirous to strangle this hideous ghost, “ will ye bring the 
doom on yoursel’ ? ” 

“ Oh, no ! no ! ” she moaned, wringing her hands. 

“ You’re like to,” he answered bitterly. “ You’ll kill 
yoursel’ an’ the wean in your womb wi’ fright.” 

She cowered, but clung despairingly to the arms of her 
cross. 

“ Oh, no ! no ! Dick ; it won’t be that way, however 
it comes.” 

He was fairly angry now. 

“ Let me hear nae mair o’ this trash an’ nonsense. 
Your wild ancestors is no goin’ to herry my nest. If they 
had to labour at the oar there wad be nane o’ this.” His 
voice had a ring of pride in it. It was the first time he 
had referred to his people. “ It may be bonny to tell ; 
but I’m thinkin’ it wad hae been better for them to hae 
earned an honest penny like me an’ mine.” He got up 
and strode through the kitchen, the iron of his sea-boots 
ringing on the flags. “ They were a bonny crew wi’ their 

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ongoins. As for oor folk, they were skilly at the lines an’ 
the oar. They werna trokin’ wi’ princes that hadna a 
penny to their name. I don’t ken as ony were hangit 
or got a red face for being ca’ed a thievery set. We didna 
brag o’ being rebels an’ shoutherin’ a gun; oor name 
wasna cried aboot the countryside for dirty work wi’ the 
lassies and ploys at the inns.” 

She put out her two blue-veined hands to him piteously, 
her eyes big with fear, her breasts heaving rapidly. He 
pushed them away. “We didna ride hell-gallopin’ on 
black stallions, an’ leave the weemin’ at hame scared o’ 
their life.” 

She burst out sobbing, her face like clay. He strode 
up to her. “ Mary ! Mary ! my lamb, I’m no angry at 
ye, lassie; I’m vexed at the wy ye’re vexin’ yersel’ wi’ 
a’ this clishmaclaiver.” 

“ Dick ! Dick ! Oh ! Oh ! ! Oh ! ! ! don’t look at me 
that way ; don’t be angry with me ; you’ll kill me.” 

He gathered her in his arms with a groan. 

“ Downa greet ; downa greet mair ; it’s a lassie that’s 
cornin’.” 

The sobs trailed away. 

“ If it’s a boy, leave him to me. I’ll teach him hoo 
tae handle the tiller, no’ the dirk. Just bide till you see.” 
And he comforted her. 

Five months later he made fast his boat to an iron 
staple beneath the guns and hurriedly leapt ashore. Last 
night his wife had taken a fancy for whitings. Since 
daybreak he had searched three banks. The white fish, 
strung on by the gills to his fingers, shone in the dusk as 
angels of mercy come up out of the sea. As Richard 
Strang stepped within his door and stood in the passage 
at the foot of the stair, he heard a wailing cry in the room 
above — thin, fretting, querulous. His heart stopped in 
its beat. Open-mouthed he listened, with his massive 


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dark head leaning forward. The sign rasped above the 
door; and mingling with its harsh noise was that feeble 
whimper. The hand of something alive, which had that 
moment drawn in from a far-off impenetrable deep, beyond 
the confines of the world, touched his heart with tender 
fingers. A new life from inscrutable eternity mingled 
with his being. Out of a vast silence it had come, away 
back in the ages. He gasped. Was she right after all ? 
Did ancestry stalk Time and become reincarnate ? That 
wail seemed to drift up from the dim spaces of a far 
unknown. Lugubriously overhead the sign rasped and 
ground out its baleful note. Once more the wail rang 
out, now strong and lusty. Tiny fingers creeping over 
his heart, set it drumming in his breast. “ Good God ! ” 
he whispered, “ the baby’s born; ” and shaking the fish 
from his fingers he tooks the stairs in three bounds, and 
saw the pallid face of his wife turned to the wall. The 
room was heavy with the dumbness and mystery which 
pass into the chambers of birth. Lucky Ruagh from the 
Back Street was bending over a long-shaped, dark-haired 
head. His wife turned a face of woe to him, as she 
stretched out a thin white arm and pulled his face down to 
her. 

“ Oh, Dick ! Dick ! it’s a boy.” 

Stunned, he could answer nothing; and when he was 
again at the foot of the stair he was listening to a wail 
which, borne down upon the wind of Time out of an 
inimical midnight past, and passing beneath the heavens 
like an arrow of God, struck unerringly into his heart, 
as he stood listening to the scurry of the wind rasping the 
rusty dagger overhead. With every swing of the drunken 
sign the dagger was plunged downwards with a snarl. 


CHAPTER IV 


Man is the blindest of God’s creatures. We concert 
measures and cast the most sanguine of plans, and all 
the time are weaving a mesh for ourselves. We harness 
life and put a snaffle bit in its mouth, and, gathering up 
the reins, direct our hopeful course. All the time we are 
trotting down a road that has been prepared for us. 
Richard Strang was determined to conquer heredity by 
habit. The vision which he had seen of the spirit of 
ancestry gleaming out of the past had terrified him, and 
it was he who was now afraid of the doom. He had 
established the house of Strang and, forgetting that 
heredity is stronger than the bands of habit, planned a 
definite mode of life for his son. Purblind, he was but 
fashioning the dynamite that was yet to ruin his house. 
The son took after him. He trained the boy to the sea ; 
gave him no books to read ; took him from school at the 
bare age of fourteen. The tales of his romance were 
figures; his tradition was record catches of fish. The 
only doom the boy feared was loss of gear in a gale. The 
parents pathetically believed that if the lad got no stupid 
stories into his head he was safe. The son not only 
inherited his father’s temperament ; but where his father 
judged of the chances of the sea, the boy dreamed of them. 
From training as well as by nature he became close-fisted* 
Where the father was keen the son was greedy. The 
parents, dreading the very word “ ancestors,” secretly 
rejoiced ; and the father even tempted fate one idle night 
by asking the lad if he ever read a story-book. The boy 

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curled his lip. “ Story-books ’ill no boil the pot.” The 
parents smiled. Purblind ! 

Mrs. Strang had no more children. Life became fuller 
for her. She lay awake at night when husband and son 
were on the sea, not from any fear of doom but from fear 
of the perils of the deep. The boy grew supple, tall, broad, 
commonplace in mind, a worshipper of things. At twenty, 
when his father had given him his own bank-book, he 
began to dominate the house. His mother, folk noticed, 
was failing. She was troubled with a little hacking cough, 
and seemed to have grown lately. She was out a good 
deal, by Doctor Maclean’s advice. Her favourite walk 
was up to the town, round its curving shore street to the 
north road, which brought her to Galbraith’s farm. She 
had often wondered why Mrs. Galbraith had become a 
farmer’s wife, for this woman read books of philosophy 
and poetry, played the piano, and could discourse about 
Nature, its beauties, its secrets, and its wayward moods, 
to Mrs. Strang by the hour as they sat on the brae, looking 
down on the fishing-fleet in the harbour and on the town. 
Once or twice Mrs. Strang’s son accompanied her on these 
walks. 

“ Gillespie,” she asked him once, “ what secrets have 
you and Mr. Galbraith got together ? ” There was a 
pleasant ring of maternal pride in her voice. It was 
difficult to know if Gillespie Strang ever flushed. He had 
his mother’s high colour. It was brick-red on the nape 
of his bull-dog neck. Gillespie looked fixedly ahead. 

“ There’s nae secrets. He’s learnin’ me to ferret an’ 
trap rabbits for a pastime.” 

Times were never so good. It was a word with the 
elder fishermen, “ When spring comes in with spring 
tides and a new moon the fishing is sure to be good.” 
Each herring meant money. Gillespie was constantly 
on the sea. At twenty-five he had a strong name in the 


GILLESPIE 


15 


bank, and Lowrie the banker would cross the street, seen 
of men, and talk civilly to him. Every man’s fortune 
is in a lockfast box, of which he has the key. Some men 
use it skilfully ; some blunder and break the lock ; many 
tell themselves they are unable, and live by assisting 
other men to use their key. Gillespie, a master of craft, 
had the wards well oiled. None was defter with the key. 
He looked to unlock a fortune, this wiry supple youth. 

He had extended the scope of his operations from the 
sea to the hill. This hybrid life put him in bad odour 
with everybody. To be a fisherman is always a fisherman ; 
to be a farmer always a farmer. Gillespie was despised 
as an idiot, who wrought clashing irons in the fire. His 
eye was as quick on the gun as on the line ; as cunning 
with the snare as with the tiller. He made a bargain 
with Lonend, whose farm marched with Galbraith’s, for 
the rights of fishing, shooting, and trapping over his 
lands. He worked like two men; his robust frame was 
seldom fatigued. He visited his snares at dawn, when he 
had returned from a night’s fishing. Secretly he snared 
the runs in the graveyard. Superstition made him 
immune from detection. In the winter when he could 
not tempt the sea, he shot rabbits and roamed the forest 
for white hares. He arranged with a Glasgow merchant 
of the Fish Market for the disposal of his hares, rabbits, 
wild-duck, and trout. He was seldom in his father’s 
house. If he was not on the sea, draining his nets of their 
ultimate fin, he was at Lonend. He was now on his way 
there with his mother ; but suddenly left her in the hollow 
below Galbraith’s farm and skirted the edge of the Fir 
Planting. In this sere time of the year the place looked 
bleached and grey, and was full of a haunting melancholy. 
It was empty, save for a solitary man ploughing the Laigh 
Park. He was a tall spare man, loosely knit, whose hair 
was turning grey. His face had something of the geniality 


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and frankness of a child’s. In the plum-like bloom of the 
winter dusk he ploughed the lea, urging his ministry of 
faith in a pentecost of peace. It was strange to watch 
him at his work of redemption, for he looked wan, haggard, 
spent. The fruition of autumn seemed an impossible 
thing to this prematurely aged man, and his worn grey 
and brown team. As the pallid sunset fell across the 
lines of resurrection which his plough turned up, the field 
looked a half-torn, rifled purse. At the end of the field 
he turned, with the gait of a man who has weariness even 
in his bones. In the dimness Gillespie could discern 
but the faint outline of a figure. He heard a dull creaking 
of harness, and a monotonous voice urging the drooping 
horses, which moved beneath a faint cloud. Patiently 
they drew out of the shadow of the firs and plodded down 
the field. A curlew cried on the moor above ; a vagrant 
gull flitted by like a ghost with silent swoop. The trees 
on the east and south sides gathered the gloom about 
them. In the oppressive stillness they stood up like 
gaunt sentinels of the man’s labour, screening him from 
the pirate eyes of Gillespie. Inexpressible sadness, and 
the pathos of human frailty, set their profound significance 
upon this altar of hope ; for though the man was at the 
beginning of things in his labour, yet he was consumed with 
the modern cancer of unrest. He was up to the ears in 
debt to Gillespie. The money had been largely squan- 
dered in Brodie’s back-room. Late and early he wrestled 
with the sour soil, relying upon the imperishable husbandry 
of earth to stop the mouth of the wolf, without perceiving 
that whisky would make the ground sterile. 

With a faint shearing sound the plough lifted the 
scented fallow, but the aridity of Galbraith’s heart would 
admit no savour of the fresh earth. The dying are not 
revived with eau-de-Cologne. In the upturned soil 
Galbraith knew no potency; in its young face felt no 


GILLESPIE 


17 


resurrection. Only in the doggedness of despair he 
caught a gleam of far-off gold in the black, shining furrows. 
He ploughed on mechanically, straight and silent to the 
end of the field. He was assisting in turning Gillespie’s 
key in the lockfast box. 

The early stars arose upon the wood. So benign it all 
was, and he so weary. He came to a halt in the thick 
shadows of the Planting. A little wind began to rustle 
among the skeleton boughs, like the feet of timid animals 
scurrying in the dark. Suddenly a light flared in the 
window of the farm. It spoke of the security, the tran- 
quillity, the tenderness of the hearth across the perplexing 
vastness of this outland brooding night. The ploughman 
turned his eyes upon it in a long hungry stare. Slowly 
he unyoked and turned his horses home, and upon them 
fell the deliberate night, as the moon grew by stealth over 
the tree-tops and across the half-ploughed field. 

Our nature is rarely prophetic of happiness : very little 
causes to brood over it the sable wings of omens. Thus 
Galbraith, harassed with vexing thoughts, was not 
startled on hearing Gillespie’s voice as he stepped out of 
the shadows. 

“ Makin’ heidway wi’ the plooghin’, Calum.” 

This was Gillespie’s way — no salutation. There was 
something sinister in the tone. It was the voice of an 
overseer. 

“ It’s a dreich job,” Galbraith answered wearily. He 
sought for no explanation of Gillespie’s appearance there 
at such an hour. The movements of vultures are un- 
questioned. 

The business became rapid — so rapid that Galbraith 
never finished his “ dreich job.” Gillespie’s voice was 
honeyed. 

“ I thocht it better to see ye here, no to be vexin’ 
the missis.” 
c 


18 


GILLESPIE 


Gillespie lied. He did not want his mother, who 
was at the farm-house, to pry further into his affairs. 
Galbraith was nervously plaiting the mane of the half- 
foundered grey. Man and beast were stooping to the 
earth in exhaustion. 

“ It’s kin’ o thochtfu’ o’ ye,” Galbraith said, with a 
gleam of irony. 

“ Weel, Calum, I dinna want to press ye, but I’m 
needin’ the ready money ee’ noo. I’m thinkin’ o’ buyin’ 
a trawl.” 

Galbraith was puzzled. “ Trawling ” for herring was 
illegal. 

“ The Government ’ill no alloo trawlin’.” In censor- 
ship Galbraith plucked at hope. Gillespie, on the other 
hand, had foresight. 

“ Ay ! but it’s cornin’.” His exultant voice flouted 
the song, “ There’s a good time coming, boys,” in Gal- 
braith’s face. “ I’ve ordered a couple o’ trawls frae 
Greenock. I’m needing the ready money to pey them.” 
As a matter of fact he had requisitioned no fewer than 
half-a-dozen “ trawl ” nets, and thereby entered upon 
another step in his career. He had no intention of using 
them : that was too risky ; but he meant to sell them — 
secretly. They could only be bought “ sub rosa.” It is 
the ideal way of commerce for a Gillespie, who could 
make his own selling price. 

“ I’m fair rookit oot,” answered Galbraith, in a de- 
spondent voice. The grey nickered uneasily, and whinnied 
towards home. 

“ I’ll maybe hae to foreclose then.” The voice was 
as suave as Satan’s. Galbraith’s fingers suddenly ceased 
from teasing the horse’s mane. He half raised his clenched 
hand to the stars. 

“ By Goad, ye’ll put me to the door ! ” 

Gillespie saw the threatening gesture. He was a 


GILLESPIE 


19 


coward, physically and morally. Lares and penates 
were meaningless to him. He cut the red strings which 
bound these to the heart of the man as readily as he cut 
cheese. To save his skin he temporised. 

“ I’d bide off till the fall if I could, Calum,” he said 
plausibly ; “ but thae merchants in Greenock ’ill no’ be 
put off.” He made a gesture implying urgent necessity, 
and said coaxingly, as if advising a friend : 

“ What’s to hinder ye gettin’ Lowrie to back a bill 
for ye ? ” 

Galbraith regarded him moodily. 

“ It comes agin the grain,” he answered. He pondered, 
stubbing the fallow with his toe ; then raised his head. 

“ Hoo muckle will I lift ? ” he asked. We talk of 
“ lifting money ” out of the bank. 

It did not suit Gillespie’s book to be clear of Galbraith 
altogether. He wanted a grip on the farm. 

“ Let me see ; let me see ” — in the stillness his breath 
whistled sharply in his nostrils. “ I’ll mand, I think, 
wi’ three hunner.” Galbraith slightly staggered against 
the grey, which moved forward at the touch. 

“ Whoa, there ! ” he called out irascibly. “ Three 
hunner ! ” Asa straw is more than a straw to a drowning 
man, so Galbraith in the depths was unable to estimate 
this sum at its proper value. 

Gillespie twittered upon one of his rare laughs. 

“ Hoots, man, gie Lowrie a lien on the hairvest, an’ the 
hunner’s yours lik’ the shot o’ a gun.” 

A man will see resource in the wildest scheme when the 
roof is cracking over his head. 

Galbraith acquiesced. He was the first of many whom 
Gillespie brought to dance to his pipe. 

Lowrie was a withered looking man, bald, clean- 
shaven. The skin below his chin hung slackly, and was of 
the grey colour of a plucked fowl’s. He nipped at it 


20 


GILLESPIE 


when dealing with grave matters of finance. He nipped 
at it now as he interrogated Galbraith. This Lowrie was 
a man who never went abroad, save to church. He had a 
beat on the pavement in front of the bank over which he 
lived ; and there, as upon a balcony, he spied upon the 
town. He knew to a farthing the state of every man; 
and he astutely estimated their occasions. 

“ A large sum, if I may say so, a very large sum on 
a sudden notice.” His small, quick, penetrating eyes 
searched Galbraith’s face. Galbraith, a child of the piping 
winds and blowsv rains, was ill at ease in this musty 
atmosphere. The large green safe, with a screw arrange- 
ment on the top, appeared to him an ambuscade. Male- 
volence lurked in it, waiting for threadbare men. And 
this pursy little man probed him. If they had fore- 
gathered in Brodie’s back-room, with glasses winking 
jovially at them — but here the sombre angel of want 
seemed to shake a mildew from its wings. Galbraith was 
silently reviling the foxiness of Gillespie which had driven 
him there. 

“ May I ask what you need such a large sum for at this 
time of year ? ” 

Galbraith seized the chance to smite Gillespie. He 
would show him up. 

“ It’s for Gillespa’ Strang,” he blurted out. 

The banker’s eyebrows went up ; the tips of his fingers 
came evenly together. He crossed a plump leg. 

“ Ah ! indeed, for Mr. Strang ; I see, for Mr. Strang. 
And what call has Mr. Strang upon you ? ” 

“ I owe him risin’ on five hunner, the fox.” 

Galbraith was warming to his task. Lowrie held up a 
fat preaching palm. 

“ No personalities, please. That does no good.” 

“ He’s brocht me to the end o’ my tether,” said Gal- 
braith bitterly. The banker sighed the sigh of a man 


GILLESPIE 


21 


of sorrows, as who should say, “ They all come to me to 
deliver them ; ” but his tones were incisive. 

“ Will Mr. Strang not accept a lien on your crops ? ” 

Galbraith shook his head. 

“ That is unfortunate. Mr. Strang is a keen business 
man ; and in the interests of my employers I do not feel 
myself justified in accepting your bond. You see, Mr. 
Strang has a prior claim.” The banker hesitated a 
moment, and looked as if plunged in thought. The 
next he rose abruptly. 

“ I’m sorry to say that I cannot consider your proposal, 
Mr. Galbraith; extremely sorry.” With his left hand 
he plucked at the slack beneath his chin; his right he 
extended in a dry official way to Galbraith. 

“ Mr. Grant.” He raised his voice. 

A tall, fair-haired man appeared, with a pen in the cleft 
of his ear. He had peeped over the top of the glazed 
glass portion of the door before entering. 

“ Mr. Grant, please show Mr. Galbraith out.” 

Galbraith, in tow of the banker’s clerk, vanished from 
the malice which loured from the green steel safe, and its 
screw apparatus which ground down the lives of needy 
men. 

The banker sat down and wrote a note to Mr. Strang, 
junr., at the “ Ghost,” desiring the favour of an interview 
with him at his earliest convenience. He proposed to 
himself to inform Mr. Strang privately of the visit of Mr. 
Galbraith. In this fashion the banker sought the con- 
fidence of ££ solid men.” Gillespie came late to that 
interview, for in the meanwhile Galbraith had passed to 
that Bank, where the deeds done in the body, whether 
they be good or whether they be evil, are husbanded till 
the Books are opened. 


CHAPTER V 


The following night Gillespie tip-toed into the kitchen 
of Lonend’s farm. There was an apology in his sleuth- 
like gait. He flung down a bundle of rabbits on the floor. 
The soft brown fur was here and there mottled with blood. 
Carefully he cleaned and oiled his gun and hung it on two 
steel-racks above the dresser. The cartridges he retained 
in a little canvas bag. He counted the rabbits, and with 
tongue protruding in an absorbed face packed them in a 
wicker basket, roped the basket, and attached to it the 
label of a firm in the Glasgow Fish Market. He arose 
from his stooping posture, and asked Lonend if he would 
send the basket by cart in the morning to the pier. 
Gillespie had no need of stable or horses just yet. 

Lonend’s father had made money. He had been a 
butler of the old Laird’s, who had left him a legacy with 
which he had set up in business as a carriage-hirer, and 
had a shop in which he sold harness, whips, and the like. 
He pottered in an ineffective way at saddlery to keep the 
rust off his bones. He had financed his son Hector in 
the farm of Lonend. This Hector was a small, broad, 
black-a- vised man; slightly bow-legged, sturdy, with a 
bright dark eye ; gross in his tastes ; salt in his life ; a 
born grumbler — no sort of weather pleased him — an 
excellent farmer, but with no initiative. He worked the 
land scrupulously, as he had been taught, watching his 
rotation of crops. He would as soon have thought of 
experimenting with horticulture as of using a new patent 
manure. He was as mechanical as a reaper, and drove 

22 


GILLESPIE 


23 


his men as unflinchingly as he drove that machine. A 
man of substance who had no need to fire his hay-ricks 
for their insurance value. Ratting was his open diver- 
sion. Everything about his farm was slovenly and dirty. 
The parlour, which he rarely occupied, was as musty as a 
vault. He was eager to push his fortune, so far as his 
limited intellectual resources would allow. These being 
limited, he had pushed it more by craft than by honesty. 
He was ardent only by turns, becoming alert and greedy 
when he stumbled on a flint which struck a spark out of 
him. He was, in short, one of that sort of men who of 
themselves are neither good nor bad for anything; but 
once instigated, and with none of the carelessness of 
creative genius, will worry and gnaw at the matter in 
hand till the bone is bare. Gillespie was now the flint, 
the begetter of fire and guile. 

Lonend nodded. 

“ The mear’s for the Quay the morn for potato seed 
ony wy.” He had had a curious piece of information 
from Galbraith’s wife, the truth of which he wanted to 
test. He pondered Gillespie’s impassive face. 

“ Ye’re doin’ weel off the bit rabbits,” he added. 

“ They’re hardly worth a’ the trachle.” Gillespie 
stretched his back and walked to the pump at the kitchen 
door. His hands were stained with blood and soil. 

“ Ye winna objec’ to a bit mair gr’un’.” 

Gillespie cut off the water to hear better, and 
re-entered the kitchen, his hands wrapped in a sodden 
dish-cloth, his massive head inclined to Lonend in 
interrogation. 

“ Calum Galbraith’s ta’en a shock.” Lonend kept 
unwavering eyes on Gillespie’s face, as he knocked the 
dottle out of a wooden pipe on the heel of his boot. 

" I didna hear.” Gillespie was delicately drying his 
finger tips. 


24 


GILLESPIE 


“ He burst a blood vessel this aifternoon, and lost a 
sight o’ blood afore MacLean got up frae the toon.” 

“Is he by wi ’t? ” asked Gillespie dispassionately. 

“ I met MacLean in the gloamin’ cornin’ ower the brae. 
He gied me the news. He says Galbraith ’ill no see the 
morn.” 

“ Ay ! ay ! it’s surely kin’ o’ sudden.” 

Lonend’s bright eyes were turned full on Gillespie. 

“ MacLean was bleezin’ mad ; he cursed an’ swore you 
for a’ the blaiggarts.” 

Gillespie’s hand shook slightly on the dish-cloth. He 
showed no other sign of fear. 

“ Me ! A didna murder the man.” 

“ MacLean said if he was a judge he wad hang ye.” 

The dish-cloth shook violently. Gillespie, crossing to 
the pump to lay it down, said over his shoulder : 

“ What spite has MacLean gotten at me ? ” 

“ He says you worrit Calum tae daith. Ye thraitened 
to rook him.” 

Gillespie returned from the pump. His hands were 
now in his pockets. 

“ A bonny lik’ story. Did I no’ hear MacLean tell 
Galbraith at the Cattle Show if he didna stop the dram, 
the dram wad stop him. It’s Brodie’s wee back-room, 
that’s worrit him to daith.” Gillespie made a show of 
indignation; and Lonend of conviction at these words, 
as he answered : 

“ Weel ! weel ! he took a heavy dram, an’ he’s in 
higher hands than oors noo.” The matter was shelved. 
They were content to leave it in those unseen Hands, 
which are patient so long with men, fondly imagining 
that their pious resignation is the winking of the Judge 
at their deeds. Lonend entered upon matter more 
immediate. He, a notable breeder of Highland cattle, 
was greedy of Galbraith’s moorland. Gillespie felt that 


GILLESPIE 


25 


Lonend was about to make a serious proposal. The 
tentacles of these two minds reached out and played with 
each other warily. Gillespie, relieved at the new trend 
of conversation, found himself again and nursed his 
caution. 

“ She’ll hae to gie up the ferm an’ sell oot.” 

Lonend had this piece of information at first hand from 
Galbraith’s wife. He had paid a visit to his afflicted 
neighbour while Gillespie was shooting down rabbits 
with the help of a ferret. It was upon this mission of 
sympathy that he had met MacLean, from whom he had 
taken his doleful tidings as news. As a matter of fact, 
he was aware of Galbraith’s attack an hour before, for 
Mrs. Galbraith, in an extremity of grief, had sent Jock the 
ploughman to Lonend to ask his assistance. Lonend had 
found Galbraith unconscious and breathing stertorously. 
His wife in her misery revealed the low financial state 
of the farm, and had asked Lonend’s advice. He thought 
her best plan was to give up the farm and sell out. He had 
hurried home to intercept his advocatus diaboli Gillespie. 

Gillespie’s mind hovered round Lonend’s piece of 
information as round a web. 

“ Are ye for takin’ it ower ? ” he asked nonchalantly. 

“ Maybe ay ; maybe no ; it all depends.” 

“ On what ? ” 

Lonend had figured it all out on his way home. He 
stole a furtive glance at Gillespie. 

“ On you ; ” the tone was emollient. 

Gillespie, himself practised in such methods of address, 
recoiled from the cajolery. He answered wheedling : 

“ I’m no hand at the fermin’ ; I ken mair o’ a boat than 
a sheep.” 

Lonend was pleased to laugh at this deprecating humour. 

“ Ye’re gey keen on the gun though ; there’s a good 
pickle rabbits in the Laigh Park.” 


26 


GILLESPIE 


“ Ay,” answered Gillespie. He had poached there, 
when he knew Galbraith was drunk in Brodie’s back-room. 

“ Ye’ll mak’ a tidy bit off the rabbits alone,” urged 
Lonend. 

“ Maybe ay ; maybe no ; it a’ depends.” 

Lonend saw he was skirmishing fruitlessly with a 
strategist, and decided to table his cards. Visibly 
crouching, he seemed to wither into lesser bulk. 

“ Can you an’ me no’ mak’ a bargain ? it’s a chance.” 

“ Whatna bargain ? ” Gillespie asked softly. 

“ I’ve gaun ower ’t in my mind.” Lonend spoke briskly 
now. “ The Laird maun tak’ ower the sheep.” His look 
was significant. No need to explain to Gillespie about 
“ acclimatisation value.” Lonend knew the Laird and 
his affairs. He had had a master deal with him five years 
ago. His lease had expired. Lonend threw his stock 
on the Laird’s hands. The Laird, a young jolly man with 
no head for business and served by a stupid factor, 
would not face even a valuation of the hundreds 
of black-faced sheep on Lonend’ s farm. Threatened 
with law proceedings, he was brought to his knees. 
At an easy figure Lonend bought the land outright. In 
seven years he made up the price in the saving of rents. 
The land was now his own without burden. Gillespie 
listened to the tale with greedy face, and sunk each detail 
in his memory. How blind are the crafty ! In five 
minutes Lonend had mightily enlightened his co-plotter. 

“ The Laird canna tak’ ower Galbraith’s sheep ; an’ 
Mrs. Galbraith’s heid sae wrunkled wi’ books an’ museeck 
she doesna understan’ their value.” His little dark eyes 
darting about, searched Gillespie’s sphinx-like face. 
“We’ll tak’ ower the ferm frae Mrs. Galbraith, an’ get 
the stock reasonable.” 

Gillespie sat down in silence on a chair beside the 
dresser. His face was thoughtful. 


GILLESPIE 27 

“ What sort o’ bargain wull we mak’ ? ” he asked, 
lifting an intent face and thirsty eyes. 

Lonend approached the critical part of the discussion. 
He wanted the land in his own hands, especially the moor- 
land. Gillespie, being no farmer, would take as his share 
the steading and plenishing. Lonend would control the 
live stock. But Lonend had been fatally fluent concern- 
ing his own dealings with the Laird. He had spoken 
with pride ; but he had armed Gillespie. 

“ We’ll go halves an’ share an’ share alike the profits.” 

There was a profound silence in the kitchen, broken 
only by the drip, drip of water from the pump at the door. 
The sound was like the drip, drip of the blood which had 
ebbed that afternoon from Galbraith’s mouth on to his 
kitchen floor. Lonend was too plausible, Gillespie 
thought, and leapt at the heart of the matter. 

“I’m thinkin’, Lonen’,” he said, bending and toying 
with the label on the hamper, “ if it’s a good thing, ye’re 
ower neebourly offerin’ me the half.” 

Lonend leered and winked. 

“ I winna gang in harness wi’ ony other man leevin’.” 

“ An’ what wy me ? ” 

Laughter purred in the kitchen. Lonend put on a 
jocose face. “ Dae ye think I’m blin’, Gillespie ? Maybe 
I’m wrang, but I’m jaloosin’ there’s something atween 
Morag an’ you.” 

Gillespie neither blushed nor hung his head. He had 
no room for sentiment. He wanted a woman, not as a 
wife, but for her money, and said, “ Morag ’ill mak’ a 
guid match.” This direct simple statement had no 
effrontery in it for her father, who wagged his head. 

“ Ye ken whaur yeer breid’s buttered ; Morag kens 
more o’ a fermhouse than ony twa.” He was pleased to 
show her paces. Gillespie accepted them phlegmatically, 
and spoke with an air of finality. “ Morag an’ me ’ill 


28 GILLESPIE 

settle a’ that, if you an’ me ’gree first.” He was naively 
confident. 

Lonend, having now the affair on the rails to his liking, 
disappeared into an inner room and returned with a 
decanter and glasses. Gillespie shook his head. He 
rarely drank and never smoked. More than once he had 
spoken in the hearing of his parents of how much he saved 
yearly by this abstemiousness. 

“ Man ! man ! ye’ll hae a nip the nicht,” cried Lonend 
jovially; “ it’s no every day ye’ll speir for a wife.” His 
eyes smiled without cunning. He filled out a measure of 
whisky into each glass, with that feeling of sociability 
which infects tipplers enhanced, because the canteen was 
solemnised by the presence of an austere, almost astral 
recluse. 

“ Here’s to oor success, an’ the prosperity o’ the young 
couple.” Lonend admired the deeply coloured whisky 
scintillating like liquid gold. 

“ Maybe ye’ll tell me noo, Lonen’, whatna bargain ye 
hae in your mind as regairds us twa.” Gillespie empha- 
sised the final words. 

Lonend had no doubt about the bargain. Here was 
a young couple beginning life. They would be glad to 
step into a furnished house. That constituted their half 
share. The workings of Lonend’s mind were not acute 
or subtle. Gillespie was no farmer; never would be a 
farmer. He would be content so long as he shared the 
profits, and held the plenishing and the house. Lonend 
would keep his grip on the stock, interrogate the markets, 
and himself buy and sell there. He fancied he could 
blind Gillespie and cook the accounts, because he knew 
a dealer up Barfauld’s way who, for a percentage, 
would give him discharge receipts on the stock and wool 
at an arranged spurious price. Secretly he blessed that 
admirable institution — percentages. But he specified 


GILLESPIE 


29 


no details to his attentive colleague. “ Share an’ share 
alike ” was the shibboleth for this Gileadite. 

“ Weel, it’s this wy” — Lonend laid down his glass 
carefully on the heel of the table — “ Ye’ll need a bit 
roof ower your heid when ye mairry. We’ll go halves 
on the profits, as I said. I’ll buy ower the stock ; 
ye’ll can tak’ the furniture an’ plenishin’ ; we’ll square 
up the hale price atween us later on. Will that suit 
ye? ” 

“Maybe ay; maybe no. Does that mean the stock’s 
yours still an’ on ? ” 

“ Huts ! man ! alloo me to buy the stock ” — he 
stopped to wink — “ an’ alloo me to wark it. We’ll go 
halves ower the profits. You an’ Morag can tak up 
hoose ready furnished.” 

“ The lease,” observed Gillespie, “ is Mrs. Galbraith’s.” 

“ Come the term she’ll hae to flit. Galbraith’s behind 
han’ wi’ the rent.” 

Gillespie pondered in silence. 

“ Is Morag willin’ ? ” He did not ask this for informa- 
tion ; but to gain time for thought. 

A meagre intelligence rarely sees obstacles to the 
specious plans which it has so laboriously hammered out. 
Lonend fancied that Gillespie, reduced to considerations of 
matrimony /was won. This vulture was no more, after all, 
than a grey gull. Lonend was warmed at the thought of 
his astuteness. A sordid plan that has become clothed 
upon with achievement is, to a mean nature, the attain- 
ment of an ideal. Lonend flung out a contemptuous hand. 

“ Huts ! man ! she’s fair kittlin’ for a lad.” 

This caused no sort of emotion in Gillespie’s mind. 
It was simply another nail in the treasury lid of the 
agreement. Yet Gillespie was by no means finished. He 
had the tortuous persistence of a weasel, with a Fabian 
tenacity of purpose. He made no answer to Lonend’s 


30 


GILLESPIE 


scurrilous flippancy. This had not at all been his target. 
He pondered on the chances of a bull’s eye in life from 
another sort of butts, which, however, he was content to 
have masked till the time was ripe and his arsenal stored. 
A big fishing-fleet of trawlers was sure to come into being. 
The evolution of circumstance, whose wheels grind down 
tradition and pulverise effete laws, would create of 
necessity a new law. The origin of law is not in govern- 
ments that only legalise the incontrovertible wishes of the 
people, whose unrest is the stuff of change. The still 
small voice of Cabinets is but the echo of the thunder 
of the masses. Gillespie had scrutinised the fishermen. 
Chance crews were already secretly “ trawling ” ; he saw 
that the revolution of to-day was the convention of to- 
morrow : foresaw the fishing-fleet of a hundred boats 
engaged, within the next few years, at their legitimate 
business in the seas of “ trawling.” At present these 
crews of some five hundred men were supplied with gear 
and provisions from impecunious small traders. His 
plan was to kill off those piffling merchants ; build a large 
curing shed ; a shed for “ smoking ” herring ; another for 
storing salt in large quantities ; a store for housing fishing 
gear — nets, oil, ropes, varnish, tar, and the like ; a barking 
house; and especially to open a big shop in the Square 
that would supply the whole fleet. He would have 
stables too. He had quietly noticed the country people 
plodding in to Brieston at irregular periods for provisions, 
and hanging about the town-foot with their gawky air, 
shy of the little merchants, and returning home ripe with 
whisky. Nothing simpler than to send a bi-weekly van 
to “ the country.” In Mainsfoot, twelve miles off, they 
largely depended on the whim of that aristocratic Jehu, 
Watty Foster, the driver of His Majesty’s mail coach, 
which rolled down the west brae behind three horses at 
noon, for many of their necessaries; and a bulky mail 


GILLESPIE 31 

meant that the long-expected jar would cool itself for a 
season at Brodie’s. 

Three things prevented the immediate operation of 
Gillespie’s plan : the present illegality of trawling ; the 
want of suitable premises in the Square of Brieston ; and 
especially the lack of capital. But he had vigilantly been 
hoarding. If he sunk his money in a farm, this would 
perilously delay the working of his scheme. As he pon- 
dered now he saw in a flash an opulent way out. If he 
made a proper agreement with Lonend, remembering 
that individual’s account of his transaction with the Laird, 
he, too, could sell out his stock and retire from the farm 
at the opportune time. “ We’ll go halves.” He recalled 
the plausible phrase. “ I thank thee, Jew, for that word.” 
He determined that his half would also be in land. And 
he could realise his money at any time on the plenishing 
and furniture. He had only one fear now — that Lonend 
might specify that each should retain his half share of 
the farm as long as the other lived. But here he over- 
reached Lonend, who, imagining he was setting up his 
future son-in-law in life, did not dream of any contingency. 
Again it was, once a farmer, always a farmer. What 
was a good living for him must, Lonend judged, prove 
even more attractive to a man following precariously the 
sea. It was Gillespie, wary as a lynx, who now was 
anxious to close with the offer. To the surprise of Lonend 
he held out his glass. 

“ As you observed, Lonen’, it’s no every day a man 
tak’s a wife.” A pleased look irradiated the swarthy 
features of Lonend. He had been anxiously scanning the 
brooding, disconsolate face of his comrade, whose anxiety, 
Lonend remarked with relief, had nothing to do, after all, 
but with the problem of marriage. It was an anxious 
time, no doubt, for a man, and rather sudden for Gilles- 
pie. Himself a widower, he had his own loose ideas about 


32 


GILLESPIE 


the sex ; but these were strictly private. In some things 
Lonend was exemplary and discreet. 

He generously filled both glasses. 

“ Here’s luck,” he cried merrily, “ to the first waen.” 

Gillespie followed his lead, interpolating, “ Morag ’ill 
bring something wi’ her.” 

The giver-away of daughters was generous. 

“ The maist o’ her mither’s things are hers for the 
liftin’ — blankets an’ napery.” 

Gillespie pushed the marriage settlement. 

“ I’ll be gey an’ dry in the bank when I’ve peyed my 
wheck o’ the ferm.” In point of fact he hoped to pay 
nothing. There was the matter of Galbraith’s debt 
“ risin’ on five hunner.” 

“ Ye’re no blate, Gillespie.” 

“ I’ve my wy to mak’ in the world — Morag an’ me.” 

Lonend screwed up his face in paternal solicitude. 

“ Huts ! the lassie ’ill no’ gang cauld ; she’s a pickle 
siller in her ain right. Her uncle in Isla’ left her in his 
will.” 

Gillespie nodded. The agreement was concluded. He 
had made a gigantic stride towards respectable citizenship. 
For what details remained, Lonend now exercised his 
cunning openly for their mutual benefit. 

“ I’ll see the Laird aboot takin’ ower the ferm. He’ll 
be at the funeral. Ye can mak’ an offer tae Marget for 
the plenishin’. It’ll save her the unctioneer.” 

Lonend rose and reached for the bottle. Gillespie also 
rose and faced him. “ We’d be as weel to sign an agree- 
ment,” he said. 

Lonend questioned him with a look. 

“ Agreement here, agreement there ; when ye’re 
mairrit on Morag we’ll a’ be the wan faimly.” 

“ It’ll keep things square.” 

Lonend, obsessed with the idea that Gillespie would 


GILLESPIE 


33 


never dream of relinquishing his hold on the farm, 
acquiesced, lest his partner should offer any further 
objections. Gillespie, asking for writing materials, made 
out a simple bond that Hector Logan of Lonend and 
Gillespie Strang of the “ Ghost ” agreed to buy over in equal 
shares the stock, gear, and plenishing of the farm of Muir- 
head, to hold the farm equally between them, and equally 
to share the profits of the same. 

“ That’s your proposeetion,” said Gillespie in an even 
voice, as he read it, Lonend stooping at his side over the 
document whose tenor was “ share an’ share alike,” 
He saw nothing in the phrase “ to hold the farm equally 
between them,” and omitted to notice that there was no 
stipulation as to the period of tenure. He offered to sign 
it. Gillespie put the offer by, and folding the paper put 
it in his .pocket. 

“I’d better see the Spider first; it’ll maybe need a 
Government stamp.” Sufficient to add that the Spider 
did his part, and a proper document was made out, and 
attested. 

When Gillespie was on the threshold Lonend said, 
“ I’ll speak to Morag the nicht ; an’ ye’d be as well to 
speir her yersel’ the morn’s nicht.” 

Gillespie promised and said good-night. 

About a dozen yards on his right there was a yellow 
square of light. As Gillespie passed he saw Morag Logan, 
seated on an upturned pail, with her dark head leaning 
against the flank of a cow. He heard the crooning of 
her voice mingling with the hiss of the milk. Gillespie 
quietly passed onwards into the night. He was thinking, 
not of the girl, but of how long he would require to hold 
on to the farm. Two or, at the most, three years he 
hoped. He walked rapidly down the cart-track and came 
on to the north road. A little way down the road a man 
passed him. The night had fallen dark and still. 


34 


GILLESPIE 


“ It’s a fine night.” 

Gillespie, about to answer, suddenly clenched his teeth 
and passed on in silence. The voice was his father’s. 
An hour ago he had been sent for by Mrs. Margaret Gal- 
braith, whose husband, without regaining consciousness, 
had passed away. In that precise moment in which 
Mr. Strang passed his son on his mission of mercy to the 
bereaved, Lonend was informing his daughter that the 
days of her virginity would soon be ended. As he spoke, 
Jock, the ploughman at Muirhead, entered the kitchen. 

“Mrs. Galbraith sent me ower for ye, Morag;” he 
turned his heavy gaze on Lonend. “ He’s by wi ’t.” 

“ Goad help us,” said Lonend; “ when? ” 

“ He died at twenty meenuts past seeven.” 

“Ye’d better step ower, Morag,” he nodded to his 
daughter; then turned and reached out his hand to the 
bottle. His breathing was slightly rapid. After the 
battle, the vultures. 


CHAPTER VI 


Gillespie, with hurried step, entered the “ Ghost ” by 
the back door. His mother was seated at the kitchen fire 
knitting. She was rather thin now, and getting grey. 
A tracery of veins could be distinguished about her 
sunken temples. Lately she had complained a good 
deal of her breathing, and her voice was noticeably weaker. 
Gillespie looked round the kitchen. 

“ Your father’s away up to Calum Galbraith’s.” A 
slight fit of coughing arrested her, and she covered her 
mouth with her hand and bowed herself. “ We heard he 
took a shock this afternoon. Poor Calum ! he was the 
best man at our weddin’.” 

“ Is he bad ? ” asked Gillespie. 

“ They’re waitin’ on him,” his mother sighed heavily ; 

“ the old folk are all droppin’ off. Poor Calum ! he ” 

Another and longer fit of coughing took her. 

Gillespie, lifting a candle from the mantelpiece, passed 
up the stair to the garret. He returned with a bundle of 
rabbit snares. 

“ I’ll hae time to run up to Lonen’ an’ set a few snares.” 
He walked to the dresser, opened the door, and took out 
a lantern. 

“ I wish ye’d bide in the night, Gillespie ; I’m not feelin’ 
very well. I’m eerie all alone.” 

With failing health her fear of the doom had returned. 

“ You mak’ the supper,” he answered, examining the 
interior of the lantern; “ I’ll be back in an oor.” 

She did not attempt to persuade him. A pathetic 
35 


36 


GILLESPIE 


resigned look came into her face as she looked at the wag- 
at-the-wa’. “ I wish your father was home. It’s weary 
in this empty house.” 

He muttered that he would not be long. Her hungry 
eyes followed him as he went out. As he unlocked the 
shed at the end of the house and took out a pair of oars 
and rowlocks, he heard the dull sound of her coughing in 
the lonely house. 

His punt, lying in the mouth of the burn which tumbled 
into the bay, was easily floated. Gillespie flung in his traps, 
laid down his lantern in the stern-sheets, and with the oar 
pushed out to sea. The full beauty of the night had arisen 
with the moon. A winter mist wavered and bellied about 
the midst of the hills. Clear beneath the moon the 
summits seemed to be floating out of a turbulent sea. 
They took on a myriad shapes — now the battlements of 
ivory palaces; now the craters of smoking volcanoes; 
and again the black turrets of a giant marble castle. The 
moon struck through the fog and opened doors of silver 
upon long pavilions of snow. Gillespie saw nothing of 
this as he pulled noiselessly through the fog. He hoped 
it would not lift as he dodged his boat into the harbour 
through the muffled silence, crept across the east end of 
the Island, and shot into the shadows of the Fir Planta- 
tion below Galbraith’s farm. He made the bow-rope 
fast to a stone. His movements had the precision of 
experience. With his traps and lantern he struck through 
some sparse whin bushes, his feet sinking noiselessly in 
the open soil, and gained a footpath. This he followed 
deftly to a dry-stone dike which he leapt with a stertorous 
grunt, crossed a potato field, and stumbling on the furrows 
which Galbraith had ploughed, fell forward. He picked 
himself up in silence, wallowed through the furrows, and 
reached the edge of the field beneath the firs. There, 
behind some bramble bushes, he lit his lantern. He knew 


GILLESPIE 


37 


every inch of the ground, and at every rabbit run he set a 
snare. The kindly mist concealed his piracy. Gillespie 
was not a religious man ; but he conceived that the stars 
were fighting for him. He snared the Laigh Park, blew 
out the light in his lantern, crossed the fallow and took 
the cart-road to the farm. He hoped an opening would 
be given him for a conversation with Mrs. Galbraith on 
her husband’s financial state, and vaguely wondered how 
long Galbraith “ would stand it.” At the farmyard gate 
at the foot of a wooden post he concealed his lantern. 
Assuming a face of solicitude he knocked at the door. 
For a moment he stood blinking in the light, and could 
not discern who had opened the door. 

“ Oh, it’s all mist ! ” he heard Morag’s voice. “ Who’s 
there ? ” The inquiring voice was guarded. She seemed 
to be barring him out — she, who would soon stand there, 
his wife, opening the door. A faint ironic smile passed 
over his face at the thought as he announced himself. 

“ Oh ! is it you, Gillespie ? Father said ye’d gone 
home.” A consciousness of what her father had further 
said made her silent. Her eager inquisitive eyes looked 
out upon the loom of his figure. 

“Yes, I did; but I cam’ ower again to ask for 
Calum.” 

“ Will you come in ? ” she asked him. Death is strong ; 
passion stronger. It was he who closed the door which 
she had opened. At right angles to the porch a passage 
ran east and west. At the west side it ended in the 
kitchen ; and opening off the passage to the right, was a 
small room where the family lived. With his cap on his 
head Gillespie followed the girl to this room. At the door 
she stopped. 

“ Have you a match, Gillespie ? ” she asked in a low tone. 

“ No,” he replied. In his pocket he had the box of 
matches which he had used to light the lantern. 


38 


GILLESPIE 


“ Wait till I get some.” She went into the kitchen. 
His mind was slightly perturbed. He had to ask this 
girl to marry him. Gillespie’s mind was pigeon-holed. 
He drew out the business for the hour ; and this particular 
business had been laid by in its pigeon-hole for to-morrow 
evening. Besides, able as he was to read men when he 
was making “ a deal ” with them, he was every other 
way at sea with character. Gillespie had had few dealings 
with women. He could treat Morag only on the basis of 
a commercial agreement. He was to discover that passion 
has no rules ; that the elemental is a law unto itself. 

Morag returned with a lamp, which she placed in the 
middle of a small circular table near the window. She 
stood in the light of the lamp at attention. She was 
of middle height. Her narrow, receding forehead was 
covered with a wave of hair. She had prominent cheek- 
bones and a heavy lower jaw, and was rather short in the 
arms. This was due probably to the fact that, save for 
the evening milking of the cows, for which she had a 
passion, her father allowed her to do no manual work on 
the farm. The hands were long and fragile ; the feet 
small and narrow. She had a great abundance of dark 
hair like a tower on her small narrow head. There was 
an album on the table, and a blighted aspidistra in an 
earthenware pot. The mantelpiece was loaded with 
white, red, and blue prize-tickets won at cattle shows. 
Over the mantelpiece, hanging on the wall, was a photo- 
graph of a ram in a carved wooden frame. Gillespie was 
pleased to notice that Morag appeared at home in this 
atmosphere of a farm. He regarded the furniture and 
the girl as his own. 

“ Will you take off your cap and sit down ? ” she 
asked, bending over the lamp, and turning higher the 
flame. 

“ I can only wait a meenut,” he said, and sank down 


GILLESPIE 


39 


on a horse-hair sofa, which ran along the wall. He held 
himself stiffly upright. The girl’s pale face flushed. 

“ Your father’s just gone. Did you not meet him on 
the road ? ” 

“ I cam’ ower in the punt,” he answered evasively. 
Without his native cunning he appeared mulish and 
lethargic. As Morag kept silent he hazarded a question. 

“ I hope Galbraith’s a wee thing better.” 

“ He’s dead.” She stared at him, round-eyed. 

“ By wi ’t.” His astonishment was genuine. 

“ Yes,” she said in a softer voice; “he died shortly 
before your father came in.” 

“ Poor Marget ! I wonder what she’ll do now.” His 
voice was slightly wheedling. 

“ I don’t know ” — the girl shook her head — “ she can’t 
think of that just now.” 

“ She’ll be poorly off, I'm thinking.” 

Gillespie was getting on to his own ground and his 
figure thawed rapidly. Morag met him with a peevish 
tone. She had not brought him into the parlour to 
discuss the barren affairs of Gillespie. 

“ I wish you would not talk of these things just now ; 
he is hardly cold yet.” 

Gillespie stooped and picked up his cap where it had 
fallen on the floor. When he raised his head he found 
Morag watching him intently, rather kindly he thought. 
At once he transferred his business with Morag from 
to-morrow’s pigeon-hole to that of the immediate present. 
He tried to refine his mind from its cross-grained com- 
mercialism . This girl had been better bred than the village 
girls. Her mother had been one of the MacKenzies 
of Islay. She had been to school in Edinburgh when 
her mother was alive, and he had heard Lonend boast, 
when in his cups, that he had “ gien a twa-hunner pun’ 
eddication ” to his girl. He knew that Lonend had a braw 


40 


GILLESPIE 


pride in her, and sat in the two-shilling seats in the Good 
Templars’ Hall at the Shepherds’ concert when she played 
the piano for the singers. There was some talk at one 
time of her and one of the banker’s clerks — the one that 
wrote the poetry in the Gazette. It was hinted that she 
was fell fond o’ the lads. He stole a quick glance at her 
pale oval face and deep dark eyes. She had a curious 
way of looking up and leaning upon you as she spoke. 
These dark lustrous eyes were now fixed upon him. His 
own hard eyes swam in them as in wells ; and something 
far beyond his ken, in untraversed deeps of his nature, 
rose to the summons of her eyes. It was as if the sun’s 
rays had penetrated to the crystal heart of an iceberg, 
and touched something inflammable there to fire. It 
would burn fiercely till the gross ice had extinguished it. 
Afterwards the sun might shine on for a million years, but 
the fire was gone for ever. Gillespie was influenced from 
without inwards ; while love is a flame which burns of 
itself internally, through to the surface of the face and 
eyes. 

Her lustrous eyes were deepening into unfathomable 
wells, and changing every moment. Like a man in a 
dream he slowly rose from the sofa, and made a gesture 
towards her with his hand. 

“ Morag, will ye be my wife ? ” 

Slowly she rose from the chair at the table. 

“ My father told me this evening, Gillespie.” Her 
face was alight as she drew near to him. Still as in a 
dream, he felt her slip inside his arms. By a power that 
did not seem of himself they tightened around her. She 
was resting her cheek on his shoulder. He could not 
believe a woman’s body was so soft and light. Like a 
feather he lifted her off her feet. 

“ Gillespie ! Gillespie ! ” He felt her arms round his 
neck. They were bringing his face slowly downwards. 


GILLESPIE 


41 


Something soft and moist lay on his lips ; her teeth met 
and clicked against his own. Her eyes were shining like 
diamonds. She was curling about him like a soft flame. 
He ceased, to wonder at men getting married. He had 
never dreamt of this softness and warmth. Her hair 
tickled his face. She was standing on his boots, reaching 
upwards to his mouth. His neck was aching with her 
weight upon it, but he felt he could endure the strain for 
ever. Suddenly she flung her head back. He slipped 
his arm up beneath the nape of her neck. Her face was 
upturned to his ; the eyes were closed ; the mouth half 
open, showing the low sharp edge of the upper row of 
teeth. 

Again he kissed her ; and she began to croon his name. 
“ How thick your hair is.” Gillespie heard the turbulence 
of her words, but did not follow their meaning. He was 
bewildered at her caressing softness. 

“ Oh, it is so sweet ! ” She closed her eyes languidly. 
“ Tell me, Gillespie, do you love me? ” 

She was so engrossed in her own tumultuous state that 
she did not notice the lack of warmth, the want of answer- 
ing passion in him, or that he had scarce spoken a word 
since she came into his arms. 

“ Yes,” he lied glibly. 

“ Oh, very, very much ? ” she whispered fiercely. 

“ Ay, Morag.” Kindled by contact with it, he be- 
lieved himself stung to the quick with love. 

“ Oh ! how happy we’ll be; won’t we, Gillespie? ” 

She wriggled up from his arm and flung her two arms 
round his shoulders. Herein was unwomanly love, asking, 
not giving ; desiring to be satisfied, not to satisfy. 

“ How tall and strong you are.” 

She touched his moustache with her fingers, and began 
teasing it gently. 

“ How funny it feels.” 


42 


GILLESPIE 


This wayward child of passion was examining her toy, 
blind with ecstasy of her possession, when she heard a 
heavy footstep in the passage without, and sprang away 
from Gillespie as the door opened and Mrs. Galbraith 
entered. 

“ Are you here, Morag, my dear ? ” 

The girl’s face flushed guiltily, as she bent over the 
lamp, and fumbled with the screw. 

“ The lamp has been smokin’.’’ 

Mrs. Galbraith cast a straight, piercing glance at her, 
which the girl did not meet. 

“ You’d better put it out then and come into the 
kitchen.” 

Passion had committed its first sin in a little lie, which 
Gillespie heard without any amazement. The tide of his 
mind was gradually drawing back to its normal mark, as 
a wave rolls down the beach from the impact of a gale. 
He had more important things to consider than the moral 
temperament of his betrothed. Immediately he took 
the reins into his hands ; “ Morag,” he said, “ Mrs. Gab 
braith an’ me hev a wee bit business to transac’. We’ll 
no’ be long.” He indicated the door ajar with a slight 
inclination of his head. The girl passed, looking at him 
with bright eyes, and went out. Gillespie closed the 
door behind her. In that moment commerce had striven 
with passion and got an easy mastery. In the lie which 
she had told, in her meek obedience, the girl had yielded 
all to him — morality, honour, life. 


CHAPTER VII 


Mrs. Galbraith was a woman of ideas, not of action. 
She had been trained at the Normal College in the Cow- 
caddens, Glasgow, from whose murky environment she 
had escaped as a bird from a cage. For a year she had 
been a school teacher in Paisley, and had married Gal- 
braith to get back to the robust life of the country. She 
came of a landward stock, one of six daughters, who had 
heroically, and with cheerful semblance, taken to teaching 
to relieve the cramped life of their father’s farm. Gal- 
braith had to pay for her, to take her to wife, to the 
Education Department, because she had not served two 
years at teaching. This generosity opened the doors of 
her heart’s affection. He used to say jocularly, in his cups, 
that he had bought her like a filly. 

She was accomplished — played the piano well, had a 
cultured taste in poetry, read Wordsworth among the 
woods, was fond of philosophy and, on occasion, would 
enter warmly into argument with the Rev. Angus Stuart, 
minister of the parish, a gross, stout man, a gourmand who 
preferred Galbraith’s bottle to his wife’s incisive specula- 
tions. She was tenacious of her opinions, and Stuart 
hated her secretly, because she often cornered him in 
argument. He would wave her aside with a lordly sweep 
of his arm. “ Gie me a dram, Galbraith ; I’m sick o’ thae 
blethers.” And Galbraith’s loud laugh would ring out, 
“Help yersel’, Stuart; oil your machinery. It’s her 
should be in the pulpit.” 


43 


44 


GILLESPIE 


Every Sunday she devoutly read a portion of The 
Imitation of Christ , and of Tennyson’s In Memoriam. 

She was a capable mistress, up early at the milking, 
and went to bed late ; humane to her servants, having a 
fine sense of the brotherhood of humanity. Jock, the 
grizzled ploughman, worshipped her. In the bothy o’ 
nights he puzzled over her sayings. “I’m as stupid as 
a new-calved calf when she speaks to me,” he would tell 
his aged mother, who lived in the town in MacCalman’s 
Lane, and was blind. She despised her husband’s weak- 
ness for the bottle, and laboured zealously at her milk, 
butter, and eggs to keep the farm afloat. Galbraith, who 
had a dog-like affection for her, was secretive about his 
misdemeanours, and withheld from her the painful 
knowledge of his debts. 

She was in middle age, the clear colour of health in her 
cheeks, her hair coal black and richly shining over heavy 
dark eyebrows and a fine broad forehead. An imperious 
woman to look at, with her clear, penetrative glance from 
level, fearless eyes. She had the hearty laugh of one who 
readily detects the humour in things. Her face in repose 
had the calm of one given to meditation. She pondered 
by the hour, as she walked slowly in the fields at sunset 
when her work was finished. She knew every wild flower 
and bush on the farm ; bathed daily in the sea from June 
till the end of August, when she would sit listening to the 
solemn music of its ancient waters, as if deep called unto 
deep, and sniffing with unrestrained ecstasy the briny 
smells of a half-ebbed shore. Daily she fed a colony of 
wood birds, that she might hear their song in the trees 
around the north end of the house. 

She turned on Gillespie a face full of quiet interrogation. 
“ What is it you wish to see me about ? ” 

Gillespie found her level gaze disconcerting, and cast 
about for a propitious opening by the way of condolence. 


GILLESPIE 


45 


“ This is a sair blow for ye, Mrs. Galbraith ; Morag was 
just tellin’ me the sad news when ye cam’ ben.” 

The woman bowed her head. 

“ The hand of God is always inscrutable to us poor 
mortals.” 

Gillespie was nonplussed. Hitherto men bargaining 
with him had broken the ice, and he had always had the 
pleasure of weighing his reply. He shifted ground. 

“ Ye’ll be in a state,” he said softly. He meant this 
to be oracular. If she took it for commiseration on her 
bereavement, well and good ; if in reference to her affairs, 
all the better for him. 

“ I’m a childless widow,” was the simple answer. This 
in turn was oracular to Gillespie. Did she refer to the 
loss of her husband or to her impecunious estate ? 

A sound of some one loudly belching wind came from 
the kitchen. To gain time Gillespie pretended a look of 
inquiry towards the door. A faint smile appeared on the 
face of Mrs. Galbraith. 

“ It’s Mary Bunch,” she informed his small questing 
eyes. 

Gillespie never paid attention to such frippery in the 
olla-podrida of life as the belching of wind ; never made 
an aside, unless in some way it contributed to his main 
purpose. He was pleased to notice the kitchen grampus, 
in the hope that by such sociability Mrs. Galbraith would 
be disabused of the suspicion that he was a hawk. He 
had concluded that she was suspicious. A pirate thinks 
that others constantly recognise his black flag. But Mrs. 
Galbraith, who had often seen him in her husband’s 
company, thought him merely an acquaintance come to 
sympathise with her. Her mind, more than half de- 
tached from mundane things, was only partially aware of 
Gillespie. Truth needs no armour; deceit an arsenal 
which Gillespie was laboriously furnishing for himself 


46 


GILLESPIE 


without a cause. How much of the effort of sin is pure 
wasted energy, mental or physical. 

“ Is she no’ a fair pollute ? ” — Gillespie wasted some of 
that energy — “ riftin’ awa’ there in the faice o’ the deid ; 
she’s aye reingin’ where there’s a daith for the sake o’ the 
dram.” 

There is that sort of man who would win the com- 
plaisance of another by defaming a third person. Mrs. 
Galbraith was not to be inveigled by claptrap. Her 
outlook was too sane and serene. 

“ Mary has her own point of view. If it is for the dram, 
as you say, yet she prefers it weeping with those who 
weep rather than rejoicing with those who rejoice.” 

Gillespie made a gesture. It meant that he cast 
overboard the ballast Mary Bunch, that was proving a 
dead-weight. He used his energy more immediately 
upon his business. 

“ When is the funeral ? ” he asked. 

“ On Thursday at three o’clock.” 

“ Is there ony thing I can dae to help ? ” 

“Your father promised his assistance; perhaps you 
will consult him. It is very kind of you.” 

“ What’s the use o’ a neebur, if no at a time lik’ this ? ” 

“ Thank you very much, Mr. Strang.” 

Gillespie felt himself slowly forging ahead. They were 
still standing, facing one another. 

“Ye micht tak’ a sate, Mrs. Galbraith,” he said in his 
blunt way; “ there’s something else I want to talk ower 
wi’ ye.” 

She sat down on the sofa, looking at him with eyes of 
mild surprise. He took a chair at the table. 

“ Ye’ll no’ be left too weel aff, Mrs. Galbraith. We a’ 
ken the wy he was, aye tak’ takin’, taste tastin’, easier 
to corn than to watter as the sayin’ is.” 

“You dared not speak this way of the living ” — her eyes 


GILLESPIE 


47 


flashed sudden fire on him. “ If this is your business, look 
to the door; it opens easily from within.” Wrath made 
her swell visibly in his eyes, which dropped from her 
blazing face. 

“ Wheest ! wheest ! Mrs. Galbraith ; I dinna mean tae 
insult ye,” he said soothingly. “ I’ve come to gie ye a 
bit o’ advice.” 

She was instantly mollified. 

“We should all be wise, for the world is full of advice,” 
— scorn rang in her voice — “ but I shall be glad to hear you 
advise for my good.” She smoothed down her black 
apron with a plump white hand. 

“ I suppose ye ken Galbraith was twa years ahint hand 
wi’ the rent.” 

Her fine dark eyes widened seriously upon him. 

“ May I ask where you got your information, Mr. 
Strang, for it is correct ? ” 

“ Frae himsel’,” he almost smirked. 

“ I did not know you were so deep in my husband’s 
confidence.” 

“ We’d oor bit saicrets thegeither, him an’ me.” 

“ Plainly.” The dove was trying to outsoar the hawk. 
In some unaccountable way she felt nettled at Gillespie 
and at her husband’s unwarrantable communicative- 
ness. 

He put on a sudden serious face. 

“Ye ken that braks the lease. The Laird ’ill likely 
be wantin’ the ferm aff your hands.” 

Mrs. Galbraith, who had not given much consideration 
to the matter, recognised the gravity of this statement, 
and at the same time divined that she was dealing with a 
man who had intimate knowledge of her affairs. She 
concluded that it would be best to let him talk. Gillespie 
smiled reassuringly. 

“ I’m thinkin’ o’ tryin’ my hand at the fermin’.” He 


48 GILLESPIE 

drew his chair a little nearer to her. She quickly inter- 
polated a question : 

“ Can’t Jock and I manage the farm ? ” 

He shook his head. 

“ It’s this wy, Mrs. Galbraith. The Laird’s pushed 
for money, an’ he’ll no’ can buy ower the sheep ” — she 
watched his furtive face intently, wondering by what 
mischance such a son came of such parents — “ he’ll sell 
them to a black stranger, an’ there’s no mercat ee noo for 
beasts.” 

“ But it wouldn’t take all the stock, Mr. Strang, to 
pay the arrears of rent. There would surely be some- 
thing left to carry on the farm with.” 

He looked at her solemn, — pityingly. 

“ Is that a’ Galbraith’s debt? ” he asked. 

The change which importunity slowly works on us was 
becoming visible in her face. The hawk was outsoaring 
the dove. The roots of her life had gone deep into the 
farm — the byre, the lea, the stubble, the weight of gold 
upon the corn, the ruddy face of autumn upon its flanking 
woods, the holy silence of its snowy uplands, the sacra- 
ment of eve in the glades, the solemn requiem of the sea. 
To tear these roots up would be to leave her bleeding — 
to death she thought. The cross of Calvary is always 
erected on a green familiar spot. 

Gillespie saw alarm in her face, for very easily is the 
shadow of trouble seen upon the forehead of purity, like 
the faintest flaw of wind ruffling a glassy sea. 

“ I — I do not know,” she faltered, and felt humiliated 
at the confession, and delivered into the hands of an 
enemy. The good cannot humiliate us. 

“ It’s just as weel to let ye ken then that he’s five 
hunner in debt tae another man.” 

Some cover their wound with a smile; the maudlin 
make an industry of their misfortune; the bravest 


GILLESPIE 


49 


cannot help but wince at a sudden stab. He heard the 
gasp and saw her eyes dilate with something akin to fear. 
This attorney pored upon her face. 

“ Are — are you sure of this? ” She was too stunned 
to ask who the man was. 

“ Deid sure.” 

There was a long silence in the room. The prize ram 
above the mantelpiece seemed to look down in wondering 
innocence. She was breathing heavily as she drank her 
bitter cup ; but, save for a quicker rise and fall of the 
breast, she made no other outward sign of her emotion. 
When she spoke it was in a steady tone. 

“ Then I’m a pauper.” 

“ Hoots,” said Gillespie, “ ye’re amang freens.” 

“ One finds many friends, but few to till one’s land.” 

Even yet she was more absorbed in ideas than in action. 
But when Gillespie spoke again it made her realise how 
impoverished and futile are ideas when confronted with 
the satire of existence, and with that ruthless egoism 
which is the spirit of that which we call “ business.” 

“ Ye’ll maybe hae to roup your furniture as weel. 
Ye winna lik’ your things to gang that wy ; the very bed 
he de’ed in.” 

“ What does it signify, if it must come to that ? ” 

“ It signeefees a’ things. A roup means laawers an’ 
unctioneers; an’ it’s no the bottom o’ the barrel they’ll 
tak’.” 

“ What am I to do then ? ” 

These words were her flag of capitulation. 

“ Weel, ye see, Mrs. Galbraith, it’s no’ the thing, as I 
said, to sell to a wheen black strangers.” She could 
have pointed out that their gold is as good as another’s, 
but refrained. One whose back is to the wall has lost 
the art of persuasion. “ That wad mean yersel’ put to 
the door. No’ a very nice thing at your time o’ life.” 

E 


50 


GILLESPIE 


“ It would break my heart,” she answered quietly. 
Her face was becoming immobile and strained. The 
voice seemed to issue from a sphinx. 

“ Like as no’ ; like as no’ ; an’ seeck an’ sorry I am 
for ye, Marget.” She took the familiarity in her name 
unquestioned. What has travail to do with nicety of 
punctiliousness ? 

“ Weel, no’ to gang ahint your back, I cam’ here to 
mak’ a bargain wi’ ye : ” the hawk was ready to swoop. 
“ I’m thinkin’ o’ tryin’ the fermin’ ; it’s a fine healthy 
life. The fushin’s sair on a man wi’ rheumatics. I’ll 
buy ower the furniture an’ tak’ the sheep.” 

Her eyes wavered and fell. A single bright tear oozed 
out of their corners — a feather fallen from the talons of 
the hawk. It was the only tear which she shed in the 
whole business — the only tear till that far-off day when 
she heard the men at the funeral of Gillespie’s son slowly 
tramp by her little house, and she flung herself, convulsed 
with sobs, upon the open family Bible, seeing in letters of 
fire before her burning eyeballs the terrible w r ords : 

“ Vengeance is Mine : I will Repay, saith the Lord.” 

At present a look of hesitancy and indecision, pathetic 
in that strong face, made her wilt. She spoke in a voice 
choking with the poignancy of her position — a voice 
burdened with the sapping fatalism which she had imbibed 
from her books of philosophy. 

“ The oldest house will have a new hand at the door ; 
another’s step on the stair. The dust that lay in the 
old corners will be cleaned out.” Her eyes had a far-off, 
visionary look. “ Mr. Strang, we all suffer hell. To the 
good it is the loss of what is familiar and dear ; the fading 
away of the things that have been precious.” She seemed 
to rouse herself with an effort. “ What is the use of 
troubling yourself, if I must go ? Horror to the dis- 


GILLESPIE 


51 


possessed is this, that the world is so large and wide, and 
yet has in it so very little room.” 

Gillespie looked at her in amazement. She was talking 
nonsense. 

44 Who’s askin’ ye to gang ? ” 

“ I — I — don’t understand,” she faltered. 

“ I daursay ! I daursay,” he allowed himself the 
luxury of contempt. 44 Ye canna thole leavin’ the ferm ; ” 
contempt spawned irony. 

44 Give me my home ; I’ll ask no more.” 

This appeal would have touched any other heart. 
The 44 lares and penates ” had become part of her being. 
To lose one’s roof and bed is a greater evil to some women 
than to lose one’s honour. Gillespie edged his chair a 
little nearer. 44 Ye see, Marget, it’s this wy. I’ve nae 
wummankind to wark here.” He put a tentative 
cajoling hand on her knee. She looked down at it from 
her eyelids with loathing, but did not move a muscle. 
44 My plan is to buy over frae you, an’ ye’ll stay an’ look 
aifter the kye an’ the hoose. It’s either that or sellin’ tae 
a black stranger, an’ oot ye’ll liae to gang.” 

44 I’ll do anything rather than have to leave.” 

Gillespie was unconscious of the studied insolence of 
these words. He was too engrossed in his plans. He 
would consult the Laird, 44 an’ tak’ a’ responseebeelity aff ” 
her hands. Oh, yes, he would see to that, although the 
farm would be in her own right till Michaelmas term. 
She was to have no responsibility, no trouble, not even 
with the rabbits. He figured his profits from this source 
at from £4 to £5 a week. Lonend would have no finger 
in this pie till the term. And he had other lucrative 
schemes. 

44 It’s a fell peety o’ ye, Marget,” he said. 44 My mother’s 
greetin’ ower yonder in the 4 Ghost ’ lik’ a bairn. 4 Be sure, 
Gillespie,’ she said, 4 that Marget ’ill no’ suffer or want.’ ’ 


52 


GILLESPIE 


She made no answer. She heard a babble of words, 
but grasped no meaning in them. With head bowed in 
sorrow, she was thinking of the grey dead man upstairs, 
her thoughts bent on the sudden terrible upheaval which 
is caused in the lives of others by the death of one. One 
moment tranquillity ; the next chaos. To-day everything 
hangs by a name — house and home and lands ; estimation, 
rank, outlook, security. To-morrow, when that name is 
engraved upon a coffin lid, the world has fallen to pieces. 
Exile suddenly haunts the shadow of the coffin. At the 
last breath the veil of the temple of home is rent ; pub- 
licity stares in ; old landmarks are torn up ; and an angel 
of reckoning sits upon the rigging of the house. The 
stillness of the death-chamber is intensified by contrast 
with the noise of a falling house around its solemnity ; its 
awful impassivity becomes the more marmoreal because 
of the babblings to which its august calm has given birth ; 
and its sanctity is desecrated by the importunate ghosts 
of affairs which gibber at its threshold. He was a hard 
drinker, careless, improvident, impecunious; but what 
a buckler against Fate : a roof for her head ; her bread ; 
a covert from the tempest. And now the rock was re- 
moved out of his place, and she stood in the pitiless sun, 
alone in a weary land. 

“We’d better be steppin’ ben the hoose afore Mary 
Bunch ’ill hae the bottle feeneshed.” 

He had taken her silence for acquiescence, and spoke 
as one with the reins already in his hands ; and suddenly 
careful of the gear and victuals of the farm. She arose 
wearily, looked at him as if about to speak, then walked 
towards the door in silence. She turned the handle, and 
glanced at him over her shoulder. 

“ I thank you, Mr. Strang, for offering me a home. 
I entered this room a mistress. I leave it a servant.” 

Before he had time to answer she had passed swiftly 


GILLESPIE 


53 


out. In her wake he pocketed the box of matches which 
Morag had left on the table, and blew out the lamp. He 
had often told his mother that he hated “ wastery.” As 
he did these things he was silently comparing Morag and 
Mrs. Galbraith. He had the acumen to estimate the 
enormous interval which lay between them in capability 
and in character. 

“ If she’d a pickle siller, it’s her I wad be merryin’,” 
he muttered as he groped for the door. 

Mrs. Galbraith, gazing down upon the face of her dead 
husband, was spared the bitterness of this avowal. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Gillespie had his own plans for establishing himself 
in the town, but he was in a sort already established ; Mary 
Bunch, that frequenter of houses of mourning, being 
witness where she sat at the kitchen fire of Muirhead, 
nursing her cold feet to the sound of her belching. 

“ Excuse the win’,” she said to her vis-a-vis, Mrs. Effie 
Tosh. How she came to be there requires a reference 
to the Back Street. This street had once some bigness 
of life when Bruce of Scotland, fleeing to Ireland, had had 
his boat drawn down that ancient way ; and returned to 
build the fortress whose rags yet hang from a height 
over the harbour. The Way of the Boat, once royal, is 
now cobbled and broken ; twisted like the precarious lives 
of its inhabitants, squirming among its thatched houses 
as if ashamed of its holes, and at every greater sore 
scampering round a corner out of sight. It is so narrow 
that the sun rarely comes there, being a sunset street 
lying to the west and the sea. 

Everything that is old is there. The houses, whose 
lozenged windows are but a child’s height from the ground, 
look ageless, and on its thatched roofs cats pursue spar- 
rows. Dominating its head is the bridge, upon the corner 
of which is the Pump, black with age, the chiefest thing 
of the street, the eyrie of the town. It is the home of 
censure, the seat of wrangling, and the folk who live by it 
are all middle-aged or old. 

Not a few of the bowed windows in the Back Street 
54 


GILLESPIE 


55 


give upon the Pump, so that Lucky can lean out for a chat 
with Nan at Jock, the same who is Jock Sinclair’s wife, 
while she draws water. Sometimes the windows do not 
serve ; great occasions woo them to a closer intimacy at 
the Pump. After this fashion. In the still afternoon 
there is a curve of water in the air. Slap ! it takes the 
quiescent street along its drowsy length. This humid 
scavenging marks one bell. Towsy heads pop out of 
doors and rummage at the windows. 

Nan at Jock is rinsing out her stoup. Everything 
depends on how she is facing. If up over the bridge, the 
business is one of cold water ; if down the street challeng- 
ing the blank windows, the idol of gossip is set up at the 
Pump, and every needy newsmonger, with a sudden desire 
of water upon her, carries her importunate thirst and 
stoup to the place of worship. The brightly flowing curve 
is fast filling Nan at Jock’s stoup, so that Lucky reaches 
the Pump just as Black Jean scurries down the wind, her 
shawl flying like a jib, with Mary Bunch more leisurely 
in her wake — more leisurely, for her house is approached 
from the street by a flight of three stone steps, the only 
stair in the street. The aristocrat is never hurried, even 
though she knows that Betty Heck is hard at heel. 

Lucky lends a greedy ear to skim the cream of the news 
before the corvettes arrive. 

“ Good day to ye, Nan; I hope ye’re weel.” 

“ Never was he’rtier since I was craidled.” 

“ What’s ado the day, Nan ? ” She cast an eye askance 
at the troop of marauders bearing down upon them. 

“ Jamie’s hame frae Injia.” Nan’s eyes gleamed; 
her face was transfigured. 4 4 He just cam’ walkin’ in, 
pushin’ the door open as if he’d been oot for a waalk, an’ 
cried, 44 Hallo, mother.” He had never called her mother 
before in his life. 

Here was news. But Lucky, not being one to admit 


56 GILLESPIE 

an empty larder, lied deliciously, and every word was 
honey to the mother. 

“ Fine, I ken. I was telt he was seen cornin’ up frae 
the Wharf ahint a big black seegar.” 

What a warm palpitating world for Nan. The very 
cats on the roof must be carrying the news. The Pump 
was now ringed with hungry devotees. 

“ Yei ! Yah ! frae the land o’ the neegurs an’ the 
teegurs ; ye’ll be the prood ane,” cried Betty Heck. 

And Nan flashed, a star of pride. “ What dae ye think 
he’s brocht for me ? ” 

They knew only of large shells with the sea droning 
in them, and were as ignorant of the Sack of the East as 
of the riches of the hanging gardens of Babylon : but 
Black Jean put in a hasty oar : “ A monkey,” she cried, 
making a discovery. 

“ A parrot,” urged Mary Bunch. 

Betty Heck, alarmed at the swift graduation of these 
students of foreign travel, spoke irascibly : “ Monkey here, 
parrot there; a black man is liker it.” Nan smiled and 
shook her head. “ Haud yeer tongue : noathin’ less than 
a white silk shawl the neebur o’ the Queen’s.” 

Lucky, who had been silent and vigilant, flashed her 
white teeth in criticism of the childish guesses she had 
heard. “ Monkey, guidsakes; ye’d think Jamie was an 
Eyetalian.” She turned her swarthy face on Nan at Jock 
as if she had known it all. “ The neebur o’ the Queen’s, 
div ye say, Nan ? ” 

Nan at Jock nodded and suddenly whipped up her 
b ratty. “ An’ — this ! ” 

A long bottle wrapped in tissue paper was disclosed. 
Such silence as possesses men upon a Darien peak fell 
upon these women. 

“ What is it Nan? ” Mary Bunch’s face craned for- 
ward. 


GILLESPIE 


57 


“ Is’t something tae drink ? ” from Betty Heck. 

“ Is’t thon gold-fush in watter ? ” from Black Jean. 

Dumbly they stared at the exotic, a very nunnery of 
amazement and awe, each after her nature eaten up of 
envy or jealousy, or glowing with pride that the Back 
Street could send out such a riever to the high world. 
With flushed face and trembling fingers Nan at Jock 
unwrapped the tissue paper and held up a long bottle 
with a green label. The sun glittered on a silver 
stopper. 

“ It’s scent,” said Nan in an awed whisper. 

Five pairs of eyes were riveted on the bottle ; four pairs 
of hands were itching to clasp it. With a dignified move- 
ment Nan handed it to Black Jean, who sniffed at the 
stopper. Solemnly it was handed round. 

“ It cowes a’,” said Betty Heck, turning it round and 
round in her grimy hand ; “ the last hand that touched it 
was away furrin’.” 

Mary Bunch, holding it aloft, spoke : “ Put it on the 
top shelf above the dresser beside the ‘ nock.’ Every- 
body ’ill notiss it there when they’re lookin’ at the time.” 

Then a strange thing happened. Out of the fount of 
happiness welling up in her breast Nan at Jock broke her 
alabaster box very precious. Swiftly she unscrewed the 
stopper, and before Betty Heck realised it she was sprinkled 
with the odours of Araby, and squealed in surprise and 
ecstasy. Ah ! if you could have seen Nan’s shining eyes 
at her baptismal benediction — her son’s gift anointing 
her comrades; the riches of the East falling like ichor 
upon the penury of the cold West. How cunning she 
was, asking Mary Bunch where upon her person this dew 
of loving-kindness was to rest, and before Mary could 
open her mouth to reply, wheeling and sprinkling Black 
Jean. 

" I never lookit for this, Mrs. Sinclair,” said Betty 


58 


GILLESPIE 


Heck in a husky voice, with her nose in her breast; 44 if 
only I’d on my Sunday dolman.” 

“ The bonnie, bonnie smell,” said Mary Bunch ; 44 it’s 
like the Planting in April when the primroses are oot.” 

“I’m feart tae draw my braith,” cried Lucky, her tall 
form towering with pride, her white teeth flashing beneath 
her heavy dark eyebrows. And Nan at Jock with the 
glee of a girl purred, 44 Weel, we’re big fowk for 
wance.” 

“ Yei ! Yah ! here’s wan o’ the rale big fowk cornin’ ; 
here’s Effie Tosh,” and Betty Heck danced with unashamed 
mirth. “I’ll bate ye she’s smelled it doon the burn Davie 
lad.” 

There was something of the earnest of a precursor in 
the gait of Mrs. Tosh, and a shadow of doubt fell on Black 
Jean’s face. “ There’s mair nor scent in the win’ ; she’s 
weirin’ her gloves.” 

All eyes were bent on the scurrying lady, as Nan at Jock 
screwed on the stopper and made a deft movement 
beneath her bratty. 

“ Man ! but she’ll get the doon-fa’,” said Mary Bunch ; 
44 she’ll be hurryin’ wi’ the news o’ Jamie.” There was 
the least possible trace of acidity in Mary’s voice, for 
Effie was inclined to be uppish. She kept a 4 4 wee shop ” 
in the lee of the burn, and spoke of her rich relatives and 
her famous dead relations. 

She arrived blowing, a little apple-cheeked woman, with 
cold grey eyes and a mass of brown hair. 

44 Good afternoon, leddies. I see ye’re at your meeting. 
Hae ye heard the news ? ” She panted. 

44 We’ve got mair nor news, Mrs. Tosh, seein’ ye ax ” 
— Betty Heck’s lips were so firmly pursed that the words 
appeared to be squeezed out — 44 we’ve got a praisint as 
weel.” 

44 A praisint, really? ” 


GILLESPIE 


59 


“ Ay, a praisint; where’s your nose? ” snapped Black 
Jean. 

Mrs. Tosh, stupefied, touched that organ, and was 
greeted with a jeer. 

“ Really ! really ! where’s your mainners, leddies ? ” 

“ In the portmantle wi’ the seegars an’ the big silk 
shawl — neebur o’ the Queen’s. Neilsac cairried it up. 
Where’s your eyes? ” Black Jean openly scoffed. 

“ Really, Jean, I dinna understan’ your joke.” Mrs. 
Tosh, on every possible occasion said, “ really.” She 
had overheard the Laird’s wife at a Mother’s Meeting 
use the fatuous word, and had practised it in private. 

“ Ou ! we heard ye were to be mairrit the morn, an’ 
kirkit come Sunday,” said Mary Bunch, “ an’ we were 
speakin’ o’ praisints.” Mrs. Tosh’s face was now irascibly 
condemnatory of such unwarrantable persiflage. 

“ A weddin’ ; really, you astonish me; if ye had said 
a funeral noo ” 

Nan at Jock took immediate umbrage. She fancied 
the whole town knew of Jamie’s arrival, and this was spite 
and malice on the part of Mrs. Tosh. “ I’ll hae ye tae 
understan’ that my Jamie — Jamie Sinclair o’ the Clan 
Line has come hame frae Injia.” 

“ Wi’ a braw silk shawl, the neebur o’ the Queen’s,” 
thus Mary Bunch. “ An’ scent ye never smelt the lik’ o’ 
since ye were craidled,” thus Betty Heck — all like the 
spit, spit of rifle fire. 

“ I wish ye better o’ your son, Mrs. Sinclair, than Kate 
the Booger has o’ her yin. I hae my ain opeenion o’ 
foreign pairts, an’ it was the opeenion o’ my faither afore 
me. Look at Kate the Booger’ s son, the nesty sodger 
fella wi’ his galluses an’ his black face. I had it frae Mrs. 
Lowrie ” — she was always “ having it ” from the banker’s 
wife or the minister’s sister — “ ‘ Mrs. Tosh,’ says she, 4 I’ll 
tak’ a skein o’ silk,’ an’ then, leanin’ ower thecoonter, she 


60 


GILLESPIE 


said, ‘ Did ye hear, Mrs. Tosh, o’ the scandlas way Kate 
the Booger’s son cairried on at the Shepherds’ Concert ? 
The Laird said he was a fair disgrace to the Airmy.’ 
Them’s foreign mainners or I’m an Irishman. Him an’ 
his galluses an’ his dirty face breengin’ aboot the toon. 
Really ! ” 

But Mary Bunch had scented carrion at the word 
“ funeral.” Her little red face perked up and her bright 
eyes watched hawk-like till Mrs. Tosh had shut her mouth. 

“ It’s you that hes the news, Mrs. Tosh. Who’s 
bereavit in the toon ? I was at the whulks a’ yesterday wi’ 
the spring tides an’ a’m no in the forefront o’ the news.” 

Mary Bunch always referred to “ the bereavit.” 

Mrs. Tosh put on a prim mouth. She was the bearer 
of weighty tidings after all. 

“ Really ! have ye no’ heard ? Weel, I may say it’s a 
far-oot freen o’ my faither’s that passed away last night 
at tea-time.” 

“ Yei ! Yah ! is the Laird deid ? ” rapped out Nan at 
Jock. 

The prim mouth tightened. “ The Laird’s well. Miss 
Stuart was ca’in’ there last week. I had it frae her ; an’ 
my Lady ” 

“ Then it’s the Spider,” said Black Jean. This was 
the town lawyer — a man of ill repute. 

“Really! I’m surprised at your behaviour” — she 
stopped a moment, fishing for Mary Bunch’s word — “ It’s 
Calum Galbraith that’s bereavit.” To the chagrin of 
Mrs. Tosh her news caused no flutter of astonishment in 
a company that was steeled against astonishment at her 
hands. They simply accepted the fact that Calum 
Galbraith was dead. Except Mary Bunch they all took 
this to be the meaning of the word “ bereavit,” and pro- 
ceeded to chastise “ the far-oot freen ” led by Nan, who 
remembered the jibes about foreign pairts. 


GILLESPIE 


61 


“ Poor Calum ! a fiddlin’ kin’ o’ body aboot the ferm.” 
Her tone was disparaging. 

Betty Heck’s head wagged slackly on her scraggy neck. 

“ I saw him last week at Baldy Bain’s funeral. He 
was that scuffed lookin’, I couldna keep my eye off the 
tie he’d on. An’ noo he’s awa’ himsel’.” Nan at Jock, 
who in her maiden days had wrought “ at the Bleach- 
field oot o’ Paisla,” was an accredited authority on 
attire. 

“ The tie was noathin’ to his lum hat. I never liked 
to see Calum in a lummer. Ye’d think he was sweetin’ 
at a pleughin’ match wi’ the hat on the back o’ his heid. 
I aye thocht he was gaun to fa’ ower on his back. Poor 
Calum ! there’s noathin’ but changes.” 

Mrs. Tosh saw redly. “ Really ! it’s no wonder Miss 
Stuart ca’s ye a set o’ common people. I winna be seen 
wipin’ my mooth on the same tooel wi’ ye aifter a meal. 
Ye’re just a wheen o’ nesty back-biters ” — she tossed 
her head, sniffing — “ that’s my opeenion o’ ye, an’ it was 
my faither’s afore me. Ye canna let the bereavit alone 
— a wheen o’ low black back-biters. I’m just on my wy 
to see Marget, an’ I’ll let her ken my opeenion o’ ye.” 
She swung round the Pump, down the burn in the direc- 
tion of the “ wee shop.” 

“ Look at her, the wrunkled poke o’ whesels,” cried 
Nan at Jock. 

“ Ay,” said Black Jean, lowering, “ her he’rt’s lik’ a 
funeral letter, a’ black roond the edge.” 

There was a silence in which you could feel them hastily 
tearing off the mask which they had worn before the 
illustrious Mrs. Tosh, and it was a big-hearted Nan who 
spoke, hiding her scent-bottle, for the hour of its glory 
was eclipsed by the news of affliction. 

“ Ach ! ach ! poor Calum, he’d his ain trials.” 

You could only understand what these meagre words 


62 


GILLESPIE 


meant if you had heard them uttered with the world of 
sorrow that was in Nan’s voice. 

44 Ay ! he’d his ain sorrow” — Lucky wiped her nose 
with the back of her hand till it glistened like a beak — 
“ an’ it’s Gillespie Strang that kens it fine. I winna be 
in his shoes the day for a’ the gold in Californy ; they’re 
the shoes o’ a deid man.” 

“ I didna hear Gillespie was thrang wi’ Calum.” 
Mary Bunch was big-eyed with curiosity. 

“ No ; he’s that quate an’ snake-lik’ it’s no’ much 
ye’ll can hear o’ thon man. Floracs gied a run ower last 
nicht an’ gied me a long lingo aboot Calum an’ Gillespie. 
Ach ! is’t Gillespie; he’d skin a louse for the creish.” 
Floracs was the banker’s servant. The banker’s wife, a 
loud, over-dressed woman, was a cistern running over. 
Thus is the world informed, and the secrets of many 
hearts revealed. 44 Poor Calum wasna the wan to com- 
pleen. He aye ca’ed me Nan Gilchrist, an’ no’ my mairrit 
name, as he gied by. 4 An’ hoo are ye the day, Nan Gil- 
christ ? ’ an’ wad wave his hand that cheery lik’ .” 

Betty Heck sighed towards the ground. 

<£ It’s me that’ll miss him noo goin’ tae the Plantin’ 
for a bit bundle o’ sticks. He wasna sweert to gie ye a 
male o’ pitaetas oot o’ the pit. 4 They’re that dry,’ sez 
he, 4 they’re chokin’ my hens. Here, Betty, tak’ them 
awa’ to the waens in the Back Street, or I’ll sune no’ 
hae a hen leevin’ on the ferm.” 

Ah ! not poor Calum, but poor Mrs. Tosh ! Pride 
hath devoured the radiance of life and hidden from thee, 
Mrs. Tosh, what is best and tenderest in the human heart. 

Towards candlelight they left the Pump and the burn, 
calling mournfully on its way to the sea — the burn on 
whose bank, higher up, Morag and Gillespie were, that 
same night, to hold a lovers’ tryst. 

44 What I was lik’ tae ken,” said Betty Heck, as they 


GILLESPIE 


63 


trooped through the dusk with a faint savour of Eastern 
scent about them, “ is this — who’s deid, Calum or his 
wife ? ” 

Black Jean answered scornfully. 

“ Did ye no’ hear thon poke o’ whesels say Galbraith’s 
bereavit ? Who but poor Calum’s the cauld corp this 
night ? ” 

Thereupon Mary Bunch, a more consummate linguist, 
privately made up her mind that that very night she 
would examine into the records of the Angel of Death 
at the farmhouse of Calum Galbraith. 

Towards the full entry of that same night, certain men 
of the Back Street could be seen creeping with empty 
stoups to the Pump, and there heard with amazement the 
subdued voices of furtive fellow-beings on a like expedi- 
tion. Together they held curious speech concerning this 
strange domestic famine of water. 

“ Surely tae Goad, there’s something in the win’,” said 
Neilsac, and asked despitefully for a match. They little 
deemed that the causes of the water famine lay in the 
irruption of a man from the East, and in the visit of the 
angel who is called Death. And the Pump that knew all 
things, made a dumb guttural sound of mockery in its 
mouth as they filled the stoups. 


CHAPTER IX 


So we discover Mary Bunch belching wind in the 
kitchen of Galbraith’s farm, and proving to Mrs. Tosh 
that Gillespie, who wished to establish himself in the town, 
was in a sort already established there. 

Mrs. Tosh appreciated Gillespie, because he was a man 
of means, with a growing name. But she was now to 
bring her private estimation to the touch-stone of public 
opinion. Mary Bunch, accompanied by a taciturn raw 
girl with beefy face, her daughter, had already found in 
the field Mrs. Tosh, who criticised sharply. 

“Really, it’s no’ just very polite, riftin’ awa’ there in 
the face of the deid.” 

“ Ach ! excuse me; I’m aye fashed wi’ the nervous 
win’ at night. It’s the hot tea that’s bringin’ it up.” 
Mary Bunch desired to be amicable. “ This is a sair 
come-doon for poor Marget.” 

“ It’s really a sore trial ” — a phrase of the minister's 
purloined by Mrs. Tosh, who delivered it stiffly, remember- 
ing the episode at the Pump. 

“I’m telt Calum never recovered conscience aifter he 
fell in the Laigh Park cryin’ on the dog. Marget never 
got wan word oot o’ him.” 

Mary Bunch, who was told nothing of the sort, was 
thirsting for more copious information. Mrs. Tosh, who 
had found Mrs. Galbraith singularly reticent, determined 
to pique Mrs. Bunch in turn. 

“As ye ken, I’m a far-oot freen o’ Mr. Galbraith’s — 
Mary Bunch’s wizened rosy face nodded jerkily beneath 

64 


GILLESPIE 


05 


her black bonnet — “ ‘ Really, Margaret,’ I said to her 
before ye came in, ‘ you and me will take a jaunt tae 
Glesca for the mournin’s.’ There’s nothin’ suitable in the 
village, as ye know, Mrs. Bunch.” 

“ She’ll be gaun afore the coo ’ill calf,” cried Mary 
Bunch eagerly. Mrs. Tosh was ruffled at this fresh spate 
of knowledge concerning the farm. 

“ Certainly.” 

Mary Bunch, conceiving herself now largely in the 
confidence of these ladies, became explanatory concerning 
her self-imposed prohibition from this venture to Glasgow. 

“ I’m too roosty noo for jauntin’ ; am I no’, Effie ? ” 
Effie, her tall daughter, was seated like a sentinel at the 
window. Her mother flung embarrassing questions at 
her without expecting any answer. “ It’s seeven years 
since I was in Glesca, when your faither gied awa’ wi’ the 
Volunteers tae the Crystal Pailace tae see the Queen ” — 
she nodded to her voluminous daughter. Mrs. Tosh had 
broached an ocean of garrulity. “ He wasna for takin’ 
me. Ye see it was the time I had my third, wee Ere hie. 
He got £15 the night he was born, an’ whaur is’t noo ? 
A’ in the Crystal Pailace. He was born on a Sunday, an’ 
on the Friday Jenny, my first, was beerit, an’ I never saw 
the corp. Dr. Maclean wadna alloo them tae bring it in. 
That was the morn the MacLachlans was drooned — a sore 
day in the toon. There was a big guttin’ that day.” 
Her small face was held sideways to Mrs. Tosh like a sad 
bird’s. “ Ay ! that was the first job at the guttin’ that 
auld Strang got in Brieston. He cam frae Ayr in his boat 
the day afore. I mind it was the Thursday o’ the Fast.” 

Mrs. Tosh hastened into the stream of the narrative 
at the chance name of Mr. Strang. 

“ Gillespie’s in the parlour just now wi’ Margaret — 
I’m waitin’ till he’s awa’.” 

Mary Bunch’s bird-like eyes darted to the door. 

F 


66 


GILLESPIE 


“ Gillespie ! I wonder what he’s efter. But I’d be 
seeek an’ sorry afore I’d hae any daleins wi’ him.” 

“ Really ! ” Mrs. Tosh conveyed the politest scorn ; 
“ the banker has got a very good name o’ Mr. Strang.” 

“ Ye’re a freen o’ Marget’s.” Mary Bunch leaned with 
an air of confidence across the hearth. 

“ I sincerely hope so.” Mrs. Tosh, rather pleased at 
this mark of respect, found herself less inimical towards 
her companion. 

“ Weel, tell Marget that Gillespie’s no’ the wan tae let 
the flies bide on his honey. It was an ill day that poor 
Calum ever spoke tae him.” 

Mrs. Tosh, with the reflected power of censorship upon 
her from the ministers sister, assumed a face of grave 
concern. 

“ Really, Mrs. Bunch, I never heard ony thing against 
his character.” 

“ Wheesh ! wheest ! ye dinna ken ye’re leevin’ up in 
the wee shop ” — she waved a chiding hand — “ Is’t 
Gillespie, wi’ his eyes for ever on the ground, looking for 
preens ? ” 

A raucous outburst of laughter from the Sphinx at the 
window interrupted Mrs. Bunch. She cast a glance of 
aspersion at her unseemly offspring, and plunged into the 
sea of her tale. 

“ It was Nan at Jock’s man that put the hems on him. 
Did ye hear o’ the words they had thegeither ? ” 

Mrs. Tosh was gradually becoming alienated from Mr. 
Strang, since Mary Bunch had hinted that he was an 
interloper at the farm ; and she condescended to lend her 
ear to the doings of Gillespie with the plebs. 

“ There was a big ebb, an’ Jock was awfu’ thirsty. Ye 
ken the wy poor Nan just works hersel’ tae the bone for 
him tae gie him his minch collops an’ his tobacca. She 
took the whittle in her thoom’ an’ couldna wash, an’ Jock 


GILLESPIE 


67 


was off at the wulks wi’ the big ebb. He ’manded half 
a bag, keepin’ up his he’rt a’ the lee-lang day wi’ the 
thought o’ Brodie’s in the fore-night, an’ brought half a 
bag tae Gillespie.” 

It falls here to be recorded that among his other 
activities Gillespie, in the winter time when there was 
no fishing, bought whelks and exported them to 
Glasgow. He professed the business was scarce worth 
the trouble, but had not the heart to see the fruits of a 
laborious day’s toil rusting without chances of a market. 
If the whelk-gatherers demurred at his niggard prices, 
pointing out the hardship of the work on a raw shore, he 
invited them to try the market themselves, knowing that 
a man can reasonably tempt the market with a dozen to 
a score bags bought from all the scavengers of the shores, 
while a single sea-side reaper would thrust his own sickle 
in vain into the heart of the Glasgow Fish Market. A 
single bag would scarce stand the freight. Gillespie had 
terms from the Steamship Company for anything over a 
dozen bags. 

44 Weel,” nodded Mary Bunch, “ ye see Jock’s no a 
right fisherman; just a sort o’ bent-preen wan, an’ 
Gillespie was fu’ o’ his nesty dirty tricks, an’ told Jock 
he’d only some coppers in his pocket.” 

44 4 It’s no a bite o’ hard breid I’m wantin’,’ sez Jock. 

44 4 Jock ! Jock ! mind I’ll hae a big washin’ for Nan 
when her thoom’s better. My mither’s fashed wi’ her 
breath, an’ canna scoor the blankets.’ 

44 4 It’s no Nan ye’re needin’ for your washin’,’ sez Jock 
— ye ken Jock gets as mad as a whesel — 4 it’s the toon’s 
scavenger.’ 

4 4 4 Hoots ! hoots ! dinna be sae hasty, man, an’ you 
sae ill to please, thae hard times. Ye should be glad 
there’s wulks to gether.’ 

4 4 4 If I wasna thirsty, Gillespie, I’d send the wulks to 


68 


GILLESPIE 


Bannerie * — this was the town twelve miles north, 
which had a poor-house and an asylum. 

“‘Ay! ay! Jock, that’s just it ; aye thirsty; boozin' 
awa’ a’ summer, flingin’ doon the siller on Brodie’s bar 
like swells. It’s a wonder the coonter doesna tak’ fire. 
An noo’ ye’re at the wulks.’ ” To say that a man was 
“ at the wulks ” was to utter the deepest contempt of 
him. Nothing but abject misery would drive a man to 
this occupation. 

“ Jock got ootrageous mad. ‘ Are ye no at the wulks 
as well’s me, ye scabby eel ? ’ — Jock shut his neif in his 
face — ‘ What’s the differ ’tween buyin’ wulks an’ getherin’ 
them ? ’ Jock was shootherin’ the bag when a thocht 
struck him. Aw ! ye should hear him at the story. I 
wis sore laughin’ at him. Doon he flung the bag. ‘ Gie’s 
wan an’ six an’ the wulks is yours.’ An’ Gillespie coonted 
oot the money tae him in coppers.” 

“ Really, really ! tinkler’s money,” said Mrs. Tosh. 

Mary Bunch made a gesture of contempt. 

“ An’ off whupped Jock tae the Red Tiger, an’ sez he 
tae him, ‘ Tiger,’ sez he, ‘ are ye on for a spree ? ’ an’ the 
Tiger had maist a fit. 

“ ‘ Suxpence worth o’ beer,’ sez Jock tae Brodie, ‘ an’ 
a shullin’s worth o’ whusky.’ An’ Jock told the Tiger 
aboot the wulks. Oot they came frae Brodie’s quite joco, 
an’ got Neil Dhus’s punt, an’ awa’ doon the hairbour they 
gied like creished lightnin’, tae where Gillespie keeps his 
wulks in the salt watter below the auld stores, an’ off they 
loused the rope, an’ whupped the wulks in tae the punt, 
an’ inside half-an-oor the Tiger was doon wi’ the punt 
ablow the ‘ Ghost ’ sellin’ half a bag o’ wulks tae Gillespie. 

“ ‘ Ye’re throng the day,’ sez he tae the Tiger. ‘ I’m 
just efter peyin’ a shullin’ to Nan at Jock’s man for half 
a bag.’ 

“ ‘ A shullin’ ! ’ sez the Tiger, ‘ an’ them ten shullin’s in 


GILLESPIE 


69 


Glesca. Poor Jock, he doesna ken the value o’ wulks. 
He’ll be wantin’ tae buy snuff wi’ the shullin’.’ 

“ They argy-bargyed even-on till the Tiger got half-a- 
croon for the wulks.” 

“ Really, Mrs. Bunch, I never jaloosed Mr. Strang was 
so near the bone.” 

“ Ay ! the kirn’s aye tae churn wi’ him, an’ the milk’s 
aye tae earn.” 

“ He’s the boy tae haud his grup,” came a squeak from 
the window. The Sphinx had spoken, and cast eyes of 
fear on the floor at her voice. The comrades at the fire 
regarded in silence the figure which had emitted the voice. 
The face of the figure under scrutiny examined the sombre 
twilight without. Mary Bunch was heard to sigh gently, 
and took Mrs. Tosh by the eye. 

44 If there wasna a horo-yalleh next mornin’. Gillespie 
was up at the 4 Shuppin’ Box ’ lookin’ for J ock and the 
Tiger, an’ accusin’ them o’ stealin’ his wulks. 

44 4 Wheest, ye dirt,’ said Jock; 4 I’ll hae the law o’ ye 
for spoilin’ my character ! ’ There was a wheen o’ the 
men at the £ Shuppin’ Box.’ 4 Boys,’ cries Jock, 4 ye’re a’ 
witnesses. Stealin’ your wulks ’ — Jock was winkin’ hard 
at the men — 4 I’d such a heavy list tae starboard wi’ the 
coppers ye gied me that I couldna walk the length o’ my 
shadda tae steal anything.’ 

44 The Tiger pulled his gravat roond his throat an’ 
turned the broad o’ his back on Gillespie. 

44 4 Ye’ll hae tae excuse me turnin’ my back,’ sez he, 
4 an’ strappin’ my gravat roond my thrapple, for I aye 
hae the feelin’ o’ your knife slashin’ my Adam’s apple.’ 

44 Gillespie didna say a word for a fell strucken meenut. 
Then he gied thon wee laugh o’ his an’ sez , 4 You Brieston 
folk are the wutty boys ; there’s no’ makin’ a leevin’ wi’ 
such jokes gaun aboot.’ An’ off he gied, an’ no’ a sowl 
kent whether he was angry or no.” 


70 


GILLESPIE 


Gossip being the compass of a people’s heart, you will 
see that Mr. Gillespie Strang was making a definite name 
for himself. He was held to be grasping, a dealer in any 
sort of chance commerce. His sign, in the estimation of 
some, should be — retail trade in all sorts of villainy. 
Most people knew him to be a sly, sordid huckster, who 
crept like a pirate through the town with oiled helm ; a 
man whose lance rested on the exposed back of the 
simple. They judged — and Lonend was among these — 
that he was no match for the open-eyed. He crept too 
much like a lap-wing to take the high air with eagles or 
hawks. 

So that Mrs. Bunch’s verdict was a plagiarism taken 
from public opinion : “ Gillespie’s here for nae good, I’se 
warrant ye, Mrs. Tosh,” and Mrs. Tosh, by virtue of her 
“far-oot freenship,” assumed arms against Mr. Strang. 
She deemed as little as the town deemed that it was not 
arms so much as armour that was needed in the arena 
with Gillespie. In the meantime she thrust after the 
ancient manner of her kind. 

“ Really, Mrs. Bunch, I don’t know what things are 
cornin’ to in the toon wi’ thae incomers. That’s my 
opeenion, an’ it was the opeenion o’ my faither before me 
that’s deid an’ gone. They don’t ken their own place. 
I had it frae the banker’s wife that his faither hadn’t a 
shirt to his back when he came to Brieston. Thae in- 
comers hae no pride when it comes tae the siller.” Mrs. 
Tosh pursed her lips into the thin red line of gentility’s 
scorn. 

“Pride!” echoed Mary Bunch shrilly; “he heeds 
naebody or naethin’. He’s tinkerin’ awa’ doon at the 
carpenter’s shed at an auld fabric o’ a boat wi’ a handfu’ 
o’ roosty nails. He'll put a rotten net in her an’ gie her 
tae the school-boys tae fush for him, an’ sell the cuddies 
through the toon, a penny a baeshin’, an’ maybe droon 


GILLESPIE 71 

the waens. He should be stoppit by Cammel the polish- 
man.” 

From the ages unto the ages shall obscure foes, no 
less than Herod and Pilate, fraternise over a common 
enemy. Mary Bunch and Mrs. Tosh set their vanguard 
against Gillespie, with the Sphinx as sentinel, as do those 
who have passed the pipe of peace from hand to 
hand. 

“ I ken the cut o’ his jib fine,” cried Mrs. Bunch vain- 
gloriously, when the acute sentinel spoke her warning from 
the depths of the window : 

“ Here he’s cornin’.” 

And two snails at the fire hurriedly sought the asylum 
of their shells. Gillespie appeared with a bottle in his 
hand. His position was yet all to make on the farm; 
and he knew his adversaries. He was that sort of man 
who imposes silence at his approach. People did not 
take him lightly; they waited on his word as a cue, in 
the manner of inferiors with important persons. In 
addition, Gillespie, being a large full-blooded man, domin- 
ated physically such wizened mice as the ladies at the fire. 
Though he was by no means deaf, he had a disconcerting 
way of making his hand a horn at his ear ; and he care- 
fully waited on every word, and weighed the most trivial 
answer as he slowly replied. He put people on their 
mettle or made them cringe. These women had not met 
him personally before. There was something rugged, 
impervious, granite-like in his silent bulk, the thought of 
attacking which shrivelled them up. Mrs. Tosh con- 
ceived a sudden animosity against the wily Bunch for 
having alienated her from this rock-like friend of the 
banker’s. She became emollient, subservient. 

“ And how are ye, Mr. Strang ? ” she asked with 
finicking air. 

“ Skelpin’ awa’,” answered Gillespie. 


72 GILLESPIE 

Mary Bunch, in more characteristic fashion, took up 
the cry. 

“ Effie’s weary bidin’ on ye an’ Marget.” She always 
contrived to lay anything disagreeable on the broad 
shoulders of her mute daughter, who accepted the onus 
like a lamb. There were reasons for this. The daughter, 
a tall, dark woman, with a dull red face, thick lips, and a 
large, slack mouth, had been troubled in the shadow of the 
altar. A gentleman, somewhat light in love, had taken 
marriage-fright and disappeared two days before the 
consummation of love, leaving a tall bridescake staring 
in Marshall’s, the baker’s, window as a monument of his 
perfidy. Its little blue banner at the top stood like a 
flag of shame flying at the fore. The baker was in a 
dilemma. No other bride would purchase the tomb- 
stone. He could not well force it on one who had, in a 
manner, fulfilled her destiny, and never appeared now in 
public except at the tail of her mother, as her scapegoat. 
Meanwhile the effigy lay languishing in the baker’s shop, 
slightly tarnished, and waiting upon love. The top- 
gallants of its favours had been removed. 

Gillespie had no humour and scarce any bowels of 
sympathy. He turned his leonine head slowly to Effie. 

“ Ye’re there, Effie ; Marshall an’ me wan o’ thae days 
’ill mak’ a bargain for the bit bridescake.” 

Gillespie could not bear to let any such chance slip. 
He knew the thing would keep, and some day, when he had 
opened his shop, the affair would have blown over, and 
the gee-gaw could be sold at a profit. In the meanwhile 
he spoke as a benefactor who would clear this stigma of 
shame from the girl. Effie hung her head in red-hot 
confusion. Mary Bunch loped in to the rescue. 

“ Ye’d think Marget an’ you were limpets glued to a 
rock on your chair ben the room. Effie was wonderin’ 
whatna libel you an’ her had.” Effie was seen to squirm. 


GILLESPIE 


73 


Gillespie smiled blandly. 

“ Marget an’ me were just arrangin’ for the coffinin’ 
an’ the funeral.” 

“ I just thocht that.” Mrs. Bunch spoke with empha- 
sis. “ I was sayin’ afore ye cam ben that it’s a God’s 
blessin’ Marget has some man tae help her ee noo. She 
has her ain trials.” Mary Bunch belched. “ Och ! och ! 
my meat’s yearnin’ in my stomach. There’s naethin’ 
helps me lik’ a wee drap. Dr. Maclean telt me aye tae 
hae it handy ” 

Gillespie assumed government, and assisted the fire- 
side ladies to a little from the bottle. Mary Bunch, an 
old practitioner at such gatherings, addressed herself to 
the elegancies of conversation which the hour demanded, 
striking a vein which she conceived would require some 
wetting before it was worked out. 

“ Ye didna tell me ” — she squared her thin shoulders 
against the jamb — “ was Calum compleenin’ ? ” 

Gillespie did not hear the siren. He was calculating 
the strength of the rabbits in the Laigh Park. There 
were some white hares on the higher ground over by the 
Forest. 

Mrs. Tosh felt it incumbent upon her to display inti- 
mate knowledge. “ He got terrible dizzy in the heid the 
day o’ the Fast. Dr. Maclean gied him a bottle ; he got 
half blin’ wi’t. He compleened it was like smoke whirlin’ 
oot o’ his eyes.” 

“ Guidsakes ! whatna strange trouble was that ? ” 
asked Mary Bunch, making silent signs towards the bottle. 

Mrs. Tosh cleaved to her narrative. “ The doctor said 
he’d a heap o’ suet about his he’rt, an’ might go off like 
the shot o’ a gun.” 

“ So I h’ard, so I h’ard.” Mary Bunch nodded towards 
the bottle, and drained her glass. “ Poor Calum ! his 
was the kind hand wi’ the dram.” Gillespie, who had 


74 


GILLESPIE 


not been listening, lifted the bottle from the meal barrel 
where he had set it down, and left the kitchen. 

4 4 Ay ! ” narrated Mrs. Tosh, forgetting her airs in her 
f orth-right tale. 44 He went away that quate ”• — now 
she was indeed the 4 ‘ far-oot freen.” A handkerchief 
fluttered in her hand — “ he opened his eyes an’ gied a 
wee greetin’ sab, an’ was gone.” The handkerchief was 
upon her eyes. Mary Bunch leaned across the fire-place. 

44 Guidsakes ! ” she ejaculated; her hand closed over 
the glass of Mrs. Tosh. 

44 Ay, Mrs. Bunch ; he never spoke wan word.” She 
removed the handkerchief, and saw her friend tilting back 
her head and drinking. She was reminded of a sympa- 
thetic duty, and put out her hand in a companionable way ; 
then stared at the top of the range. 

44 Where’s my gless ? ” she asked in amazement. 

A half-suppressed squeal from the Sphinx enlightened 
her. 

44 Is that my dram ye hae, Mrs. Bunch ? ” 

44 Ach wheest ” — Mary Bunch waved a fluttering hand — 
44 dinna vex me mair, Mrs. Tosh. I’m that vexed for 
your freen Mrs. Galbraith, that if I dinna get something 
noo, I’ll no can help greetin’.” 

44 Really ! ye needna hae been sae smert, Mary Bunch, 
that’s my opeenion.” She rose to the dresser, but found 
no bottle. She gazed around like a marooned mariner. 

44 I’m gettin’ fair stupid,” she cried with vexation, 
44 between ye a’. I thought I notissed the bottle on the 
dresser.” 

44 Gillespie’s taen it awa’.” It was Effie who spoke 
from her eyrie at the window. There was a ring of tri- 
umphant vindictiveness in her voice. It is profitable at 
times to be a Sphinx. It makes one immune from sordid 
cares and paltry troubles. 

44 Ay ! ay ! ” said Mary Bunch, making a hasty 


GILLESPIE 


75 


gurgling noise ; “ that’s oor Effie ; aye bad news.” She 
set down her empty glass and shook herself. 

“ Effie ’ill be priggin’ me in a meenut tae be goin’. 
It’ll be gey an’ dark on the brae sune.” 

Mrs. Tosh drew over beside her. There was one dark 
matter which she could not lay in the lap of the minister’s 
sister or the banker’s wife. She wanted genuine and 
secret counsel. 

“ Mrs. Bunch,” she asked with a companionable air, 
“ hoo much mournin’s should a far-oot freen lik’ me weir 
oot o’ respec’ tae the deid ? ” The tree of Mrs. Bunch’s 
knowledge was ripe and profuse. 

“ Thae mairridges ” — she glanced peevishly at her 
daughter — “ thae mairridges an’ funerals, they’re aye 
expensive things oor f reends pit on us.” She dolefully 
shook her head. In some dim way, over the accusation 
against her in respect of that purloined dram, she felt she 
owed a stab at Mrs. Tosh. 

“ Wad twa shullin’s worth o’ crape be plenty ? ” 

Mary Bunch held up hands of horror. 

“ Losh ! losh ! the minister’s sister was weir mair nor 
that ower her wee Pommyrenian dog. Twa shullings ! 
and ye’re gaun tae tak’ a jant tae Glesca for that. Mrs. 
Tosh, ye’ll be the fair scandal o’ the hale toon. Ye’ll need 
a new skirt, an’ a black silk blouse, an’ black gloves ; an’ 
maybe new boots an’ an umbrella. Ye’re a far-oot 
freen ” 

Gillespie entered. 

“ Ye’re for the road,” he said. 

“ Whaur’s Marget ? ” Mrs. Tosh’s face was rather 
white. The honour of a friendship that was cataclysmic 
had been suddenly thrust upon her. 

“ Marget’s no’ very weel,” answered Gillespie suavely. 
He was anxious to be rid of these females. 

“ There’s mair nor Marget no’ very weel,” snapped 


76 


GILLESPIE 


Mary Bunch. “ I’d a sair trachle up the brae. I’m no’ 
as licht in the fut as I used tae be. Och ! och ! they 
rheumatics. I hae them in the boo o’ the knee, an’ the 
boo o’ the airm, an’ the shouther heid.” She touched 
each part of the body named as she spoke. “ Effie here 
says a wee drap’s the only thing for ’t.” Her tone was 
deprecating. She was chiding her bibulous offspring. 

“ Effie’s wrang,” said Gillespie; “ try sulphur inwardly 
an’ torpety outwardly. Torpety’s very searchin’.” 

“ Maybe ye ken better than Dr. Maclean ? ” Mrs. 
Bunch replied with venom. 

Gillespie smiled slowly in her face. 

“ Weel ! weel ! Mary, there’s nae use threshin’ watter ; 
naethin’ but bubbles reise.” 

Mary Bunch saw that the hunt was over and the fox 
dead. She now addressed herself in real earnest to going. 

“ Thank ye ; I’m no’ needin’ sulphur an’ torpety. 
Guid nicht tae ye, Mr. Strang. Ye can tell Marget I’ll 
take a run up to the coffinin’.” She turned her small 
irascible face on Mrs. Tosh. 

“ Are ye for the brae ? ” 

Mrs. Tosh signified assent by a dumb nod, and Mary 
Bunch sheered across the kitchen floor with her tall 
daughter in her wake, like a corvette in a sea-way with a 
three-decker in tow. 

Without the night air became full of grumblings. 

“ Is he no’ the dour deevil ? stiff as a turnip wi’ the 
bottle.” 

“ Really ! really ! thae incomers ” 

“ Wi’ his wee eyes lik’ a traivellin’ rat’s, an' his chin 
as long ’s a lamb’s. Any man wi’ thon chin can look aheid 
o’ him.” Mary Bunch was indignant, and poured out 
her vials to the stars. “ Whuppin’ off the bottle as if it 
was his ain when you an’ me, Mrs. Tosh, could hae made 
a nicht o’t. I’m surprised at Marget.” 


GILLESPIE 


77 


" Are ye no' just over the score, Mrs. Bunch, aboot the 
mournin’s? ” Mrs. Tosh’s lament was cut short by a 
stumble in the rut of the cart-road. She lurched against 
Mary Bunch, who was impinged upon the paling, and 
recovered herself vixenishly. 

“Ye may weel spend a five-pun’ note on mournin’s 
efter a’ ye’ve cairried awa’ wi’ ye, staggerin’ there lik’ a 
lord.” 

“ Dinna insult me, Mary Bunch, dinna insult me; I’ll 
no’ stand it.” 

“ I notiss that,” answered Mary Bunch, with hauteur. 
She gave the cold shoulder to her companion and engaged 
her daughter. 

“ The mean scart that he is, Effie. The east win’s 
aye in his coal-bunker. I’ve been at sixty-fower be- 
reavements an’ coffinin’s an’ never saw the lik’ o’ thon. 
Whupped off the bottle under my very nose. It bates 
cock-fightin’.” 

And Effie Bunch, the Sphinx, laughed loud and vaguely 
to the night. Concerning the trio, Gillespie had com- 
mented to the unblemished bottle : “ Thon’s no’ the sort 
o’ hoodie craws to burn guid pooder on.” 


CHAPTER X 


Gillespie found the ploughman, Jock o’ the Patch — 
so named from a birth-mark which he had over his right 
eye — asleep in the bothy with a sheep for a pillow, and 
bade him go to the kitchen and keep his mistress company. 
J ock growled at him like a dog, and slouched off round the 
gable-end with a surly face. Jock and Gillespie were at 
variance. They had met in the dimness of the dawn on 
Galbraith’s lands, and Jock straightly charged Gillespie 
with trespass and theft. Gillespie took a high hand at 
first; then hinted that Galbraith was in his power, and 
that it would be to Jock’s profit to subserve the interests 
of Gillespie. Jock incontinently swung a loyal fist upon 
Gillespie’s jaw, relieved him of several pairs of rabbit 
snares, and ordered Gillespie off the land. J ock marched 
like a sentinel behind him, and jeered him at parting. 

Jock, a squat, broad man who sang Gaelic songs half 
the day, had a fund of native shrewdness. He concluded 
that Gillespie’s invasion had been by way of the sea, and, 
searching the shore, came on his boat. He confiscated 
the oars, the rowlocks, and bow-rope, and staving her in 
with a great stone set her adrift to founder. 

As Gillespie on this night turned down the cart-road 
he meditated an early dismissal of Jock o’ the Patch. 
His step was agile. He had done a good piece of business 
that day, and felt in a rare light mood. There are some 
natures for whom pleasure is the staple of life. To 
Gillespie it was the infrequent interest that accrued on 
the capital of his schemes — the meagre star which hung 
78 


GILLESPIE 


79 


in the sky after the burden and heat of the day. Under 
its influence he was in a brisk mood. He was exalted 
with the wine of success, and saw himself rapidly becoming 
a man of substance. 

The night was bland. The moss and ferns were yellow 
in the moon. The burn, lined with the dry trunks of thin 
silver birches and rowan trees, closing him in as in a 
chamber, babbled from its lair its ancient runes. A thin 
silver mist, the outer garment of moonlight, clothed the 
fields and veiled the crooning sea. In the south thin, 
bluish clouds were drawn taut across the steep sky, like 
the bows of an ancient army strung for battle, and the 
purple northern hills, expectant of the moon, loomed up 
black to the tiny stars. 

Almost at his feet she arose out of the bracken like a 
fawn, brushing a wisp of hair back from her forehead. 
He saw her face, as it were, through a window. Though 
he did not observe it, she stood as one who was his 
possession, and waiting for his judgment on her act. 

“I’ve been waitin’ for you ” — a fluttering hesitancy 
was in her speech. Her appearance pleased him. In the 
parlour of the farmhouse one thought had paraded the cold 
doors of his heart like a sentinel : “ I must play the lover ; 
without her my plans will fall to the ground.” But the 
sentinel had now thrown away the arms of commerce, for 
that fight had been waged victoriously. He was ready 
for dalliance. He felt grateful to her, waiting to cap the 
day for him with a love-draught, and was flattered that 
a woman should thus minister to him. The tragedy was 
that the woman was waiting upon herself, tending the 
flame of her own passion. The scents of the night 
drifting from hill and shore were the incense upon the 
altar. 

Her head was bare. Her fascination aided the subtle 
power of the night. A spirit of youth walked the dusk. 


80 


GILLESPIE 


He stepped within a magic ring and, peering down into 
her luminous face, was drowned in the lustrous eyes. 

“ I expected ye,” he answered, and was pleased at the 
sudden light which the lie evoked upon her face. This 
was a new power he possessed — of moving the countenance 
of a woman. Satisfaction that was almost a thrill seized 
him. He proceeded to experiment with this power. He 
caught her hands. The girl did not now invite him. 
Instinctively she was asserting her right within the most 
ancient empire in the world. She knew she would be 
wooed; and, like the female, was prepared to run that 
she might hear the delicious thunder of the pursuing feet 
of the male whom she had lured. Around them the world 
stood still and the stars listened. A strange new power 
this ! It could create flame and a sea of witchery. They 
were being swept on a river of fire beyond the world and 
the things of time. She swayed as a flower in the wind in 
his arms. Her hair was a fragrant cloud. Beyond the world, 
beyond time ; where the blood beat thickly in one’s ears. 

“ Oh ! oh ! you’re hurtin’ me.” 

It was a sob rather than words. They were in a cloud 
of fire beyond the world, beyond time. Everything 
around was white like snow in the moonlight. Gillespie 
wooed her in the shadow of a whin bush. 

Far across the moon- whitened bay a woman lay 
sleeping in the “ Ghost.” She stirred and moaned in her 
sleep, for she dreamt of the ancient doom that lay upon 
her house. By a burn-side, that was crying like a fretting 
child, the working of the doom was begun. 

Feverish, a little hysterical, Morag went up the cart- 
road between the ruts. The burn, on her left, crooned on, 
visionary, impalpable, lit with the light of dreams, a grey 
wayfarer, eternally singing in its coldness with elfin voice. 
Her heart was throbbing tumultuously; and the burn 


GILLESPIE 


81 


sang and pulsed with its ancient lure. At the gate she 
stumbled on a lantern, picked it up, and moved slowly to 
the house. 

Opposite the whin bush the burn lay dark and silent 
in a pool, from which it issued to go down to the sea, where 
death sits in the grey shadows waiting for the men who, 
in little boats, tempt her among the isles where the south- 
east wind hangs out upon the sky the battle bows of 
heaven. Fraught with the experience and knowledge of 
its long journey from the hills, past the Pump and the 
“ wee shop ” of Mrs. Tosh, it issues from its dark pool 
with a single note of the still small voice that is bred of 
the earthquake and the fire, repeating its tragic chorus — - 
that which is shall be ; sorrow, grief, and heartaches for 
ever springing up from the ashes of desire in clear, quench- 
less flame between the cherubim in the face of God. 

Something had stirred within Morag, new, strange, and 
wild. As the bright ribbon of the burn flashed, she felt 
a magic light glitter on the current of her own life. She 
did not dream that the moon which cast the light on the 
burn was a cold lumina^. The inflammable in the heart 
of her lover had taken fire ; rapidly it would burn out ; 
and the ice of greed would grip and sterilise. She hung 
out of her window, a yearning look on her face, and heard 
the plash of his oars and their roll in the rowlocks as he 
crossed the star-powdered bay. She saw the boat trail, 
a dark speck in the moon, across the east end of the island 
and vanish. Then silence fell upon the living and the dead 
in the house of Muirhead. Without the lonely burn 
whispered to the night in the voice of a lorelei spirit 
gloating over a foundering boat drifting through the 
dark to the sounding weir. 

She stripped and stretched herself out upon the bed 
on her back, her mind moving swiftly, like a shuttle of 
flame upon the loom of love, 
a 


CHAPTER XI 


Gillespie conceived the stars to be fighting for him in 
their courses. Certain accredited seamen of the port, 
Ned o’ the Horn, Lang Jamie, and Big Finla’ in especial, 
manned the forlorn hope, being the pick of the fleet. 
Big Finla’ was known as the Pilot of the Port, for he could 
sniff home like a terrier through the darkest snow-shower, 
and make a reach by the weather-ear from the recollection 
of old sailing-songs, and the wise sayings of dead mariners ; 
while Ned o’ the Horn, the husband of Black Jean, had 
seen the grey blunt cliffs of Magellan full of black stars, 
and the spindrift rise like the spouting of whales upon 
the iron cliffs there. He had lost an arm on the black 
thundering cape. Neilsac, husband to Betty Heck, was 
one of the company — a tom-tit of a man, with nerves of 
steel. Inasmuch as the picked men of the port were tall, 
reticent fellows, it was left to the alert tongue of Neilsac 
to inform the “ Shipping Box ” of how they got their beards 
bleached in the gale, when news came that Jock o’ the 
Patch lay dying on the Barlaggan Hill, having by a mis- 
chance stumbled in the heather, and shot himself with the 
gun he carried. He had been searching for foxes. It was 
the dog of the Barlaggan shepherd which nosed him out ; 
and the shepherd who bore him on his shoulders three 
miles across the breast of the hill to his house, then 
walked seven miles across the hill in a screaming gale in 
the heart of a pitch-black night into Brieston to inform 
Maclean. Even the Barlaggan shepherd could not tell 
how he had accomplished that herculean journey. He 


GILLESPIE 83 

only knew that the fear of death was the scourge at his 
heels. 

The picked men of the port took the sea in all its 
raging to carry the doctor to the dying man. He had a 
mother, who was living in MacCalman’s Lane, and she was 
a widow and was blind. 

“ It was rainin’ in sheets when we came doon tae the 
skift ” — Neilsac told the tale — “ The doctor was aboard. 

£ Tell the policeman we can’t wait,’ I heard him cry. 

“ An’ there was the bobby rubbin’ his eyes wi’ the 
sleep. Ye’d think wi’ his red hairy face he’d been caught 
in birdlime. He heard the doctor. 

By Chove ! ’ sez he, ‘ I’ll go, if I hev to sweem.’ 

“ It was smooth watter oot tae the * Ghost ’ ; but oh ! 
boys-a-boys, it was blowin’ good 0 ! frae the suthard — fair 
glens o’ seas runnin’ oot on the Loch. We’d four reefs in, 
an’, being close-hauled, I got into the fo’c’sle beside the 
bobby for the jib. Just wi’ that we opened Rudh’a’ Mhail 
an’ she got the weight o’ the sea, bow under. Ye ken in 
the deid o’ winter we werena oot at the fushin’ ; an’ beds 
an’ nets were lyin’ aboot; an’ the hale laggery fetched 
away tae leeward, an’ the bobby wi’ them. If ye ever 
saw a greetin’ bubbly-jock it was Cammel the bobby. 
His face was lik’ a foozy moon in the fog. Weel, I cried 
tae Big Finla’ tae ease her a bit till I got the jib on her — 
Lang Jamie was by him at the sheet ; an’ there was the 
bobby standin’ at the break o’ the fo’c’sle — the very 
worst place he could stand in. I told him tae come awa’ 
doon aft beside the doctor, but he thought I was takin’ 
a fiver oot o’ him. So I just left him jaloosin’. Off the 
Fraoch Island she was staggerin’ in tae ’t, good 0 ! when 
she took wan green lump aboard an’ it drenched the bobby, 
runnin’ oot at his boots. We saw him crawlin’ aft, and 
sez he, ‘ Iss it to hell we’ll be goin’, or tae Jock o’ the 
Patch ? my legs iss aal wet.’ 


84 


GILLESPIE 


44 4 This is noathin’ tae the time o’ war/ sez I. 

“ 4 Then, boys,’ sez he, ‘ I don’t envy ye your chob.’ 

44 4 Weel,’ sez I tae him, ‘ ye might gie us a wee bit more 
rope on a Setterday night if we go on the spree. Ye see 
something o’ what we hae tae thole.’ 

4 4 4 Dhia ! ’ sez he, 4 if I get home to the poliss-station 
I’ll be giffin’ you aal the rope you’ll be wantin’ to hang 
yerself, by Chove ! ’ 

44 We managed tae get her in tae the Black Hole ablow 
Barlaggan. We left the bobby an’ Ned o’ the Horn 
aboard, an’ took the brae up tae the shuppurd’s hoose. 
It was black as the earl o’ hell’s wescuts. An’ 0 ! boys, 
thon was a sight. I tell ye, boys, poor Jock’s veins were 
hingin’ aboot his legs lik’ a weepin’ willow-tree. He was 
fair sweemin’ in blood. I canna tell ye what Maclean did, 
for I hadna the he’rt tae look. By the Lord ! boys, 
but Maclean’s a man, I’m tellin’ ye ! We cairried poor 
Jock in a blanket through the heather. Och ! och ! boys, 
I can hear him groanin’ yet. An’ there was the job tae 
get him aboard. Maclean and Lang Jamie were oot tae 
their airm-pits, an’ poor Jock was blin’ wi’ the spindrift. 
I thought I was leevin’ in eternity the time we took gettin’ 
him aboard. Och ! och ! the squeals o’ him. ’Clare tae 
Goad, I’ll hear them on my daithbed. It was fair win’ 
runnin’ home, an’ a’ the time Maclean was on his knees 
beside Jock. We reached the Quay, an’ off gied the 
bobby tae the 4 Ghost ’ tae get Gillespie’s barrow, oot o’ the 
auld store where he hes the wulks. The mean deevil, he 
winna gie Cammel the key, in case he’d steal his wulks, 
but kept him waitin’ till he’d thrown on his clothes.” 

Some one in the dark of the 44 Shipping Box ” swore 
softly. 44 He’ll get his belly full o’ wulks some day.” 

44 We hurled Jock up the street tae his auld blin’ 
mither. I tell ye, boys, I couldna stey longer ; my blood 
was lik’ watter wi’ thon cries o’ poor Jock ” 


GILLESPIE 


85 


The moment Jock o’ the Patch was brought to the 
stair foot he ceased moaning. 

“She canna see; an’ she’s no’ goin’ tae hear,” he 
babbled. These were the only words he had spoken since 
the journey began. 

They heard the blind woman groping about on the 
stair- head. 

“ Is that you, Jock ? ” 

“ Ay, it’s me ! ” 

“ It’s a wonder ye won hame a nicht lik’ this.” 

“For Goad’s sake somebody speak tae her,” moaned the 
dying man. 

“ I’m cornin’ up, granny, to licht the lamp,” Gillespie 
cried, and ascended the stair. She had been sitting 
waiting, waiting, her own darkness within, gross darkness 
without. 

At Gillespie’s voice, Jock o’ the Patch opened his eyes. 

“ Maclean,” he whispered. 

The doctor knelt down. 

“Tell Marget — tae hae — nae dailin’s — wi’ Gillespie; 
he’s a — damn thief — he’s — rabbits,” the voice trailed 
away; the sweat of anguish poured down his face. 

Their hands were wet with blood as they bore him up 
the stair and laid him on the bed. A fierce gust of wind 
dragged the barrow down the street. At the scrunch 
the sick man stirred and opened his eyes, and saw the lean 
crooked hands of his mother wavering over him, feeling 
for him. He tried to signal with his eyes that they should 
take her away. But Gillespie had darted down the stair 
after the barrow ; Maclean was at the dresser, writing on 
a slip of paper the two words “ hypodermic case.” He 
gave it to Ned o’ the Horn, with a whispered injunction 
that he was to rouse Kyle, his chemist. The hands de- 
scended — worn tentacles of love — and touched his face. 

“ Where are ye hurt, Jock ? ” 


86 


GILLESPIE 


He muttered doggedly, “ I’m no’ hurt. ’ 

“ Ay ! ye’re like your faither, dour as daith.” 

The hands were rapidly moving over him. 

“ Dinna tell me ye’re no’ hurt.” 

“ It’s only — a bit — scratch.” 

“ A geyan scratch : ye’re no’ the wan tae be cairrit 
hame for a scratch, ye dour deevil.” 

The dying man groaned. 

Her voice became wheedling, “ Dinna be sae thrawn, 
Jock, my man. A gun’s no a chancy thing. Tell me noo, 
is that the place, Jock? ” She spoke as if the benign 
maternal touch would draw the balm from Gilead and 
soothe his wounds. 

“ Ay,” — her hands were groping over the region of his 
heart. “ It’s there — I’m — hurt.” 

Ned o’ the Horn entered, followed by Campbell, the 
policeman, and Lang Jamie, who had remained behind 
to help Big Finla’ to moor the skiff. Ned o’ the Horn 
handed the doctor a small Russian leather case. The 
doctor lifted the lamp from the dresser and placed it on the 
kitchen table, where there was a cup and saucer, half a 
loaf, and some butter on a cracked plate. The doctor 
asked for water, and getting it from Ned o’ the Horn, 
stooped over the table beside the lamp, his grey beard 
looking white in the light. The policeman, big-eyed, 
watched him drawing a liquid from the saucer into a thin 
tube, which ended in a shining point of steel. 

“ Now, Jock, I’m ready.” Maclean straightened him- 
self. His voice rang cheerily through the kitchen. The 
policeman felt grateful to the doctor for something in- 
vigorating in the words. In some dim way the policeman 
felt the power of archangels to be in the thin shining steel 
tube. 

“Is that Jock’s medicine, doctor? ” The hands re- 
mained, the bandage of motherhood, over the son’s heart. 


GILLESPIE 


87 


The blind face was turned over the shoulder in interroga- 
gation. Maclean took her by the arm and gently drew 
her from the bedside. “ I’m going to give Jock his 
medicine.” He signed to Lang Jamie, who was towering 
up at the fireplace, to lead her to a chair. The blind 
woman refused to move. 

“ Aw ! mo thruaigh ! mo thruaigh ! I felt a hand lik’ 
a bone on me last nicht in my sleep. It wasna chancy. 
An’ me sae blin’ ; I canna see ye, Jock.” 

Maclean had shouldered quietly past her to the bed- 
head. With a pair of scissors he deftly cut away the 
sleeve of Jock’s jacket, shirt, and semmet and bared the 
arm. With blinking eyes and racing heart the policeman 
watched the point of the needle piercing the skin. There 
was no sound in the room but the sick man’s quick 
breathing. The wind scurried along the street like a rout 
of panic-stricken animals. Jock opened his eyes and 
gazed once, long and deep, into the eyes of Maclean. 
The doctor nodded and smiled. 

“ You’ll sleep now.” 

The dying man caught the note of compassion, and 
lifted his right hand. Maclean took it. The eyes closed 
After a few moments the doctor laid the hand down 
on the blanket. 

A step was heard on the stair. It was Gillespie’s He 
had secured his barrow. Just as he entered tne room 
Jock opened his eyes, and turned them to the door, 
without movement of his head. 

“ What o’clock is’t ? ” he asked in a strong, clear voice. 

Gillespie consulted a vast mechanism of silver. 

“ Twenty meenuts to five.” 

The eyes closed again. Jock took a deep breath. 

“ The morphia has got him,” said Maclean. 

Suddenly the sick man began to babble in a whispering 
voice of a fox in the Laigh Park among the lambs. Twice 


88 


GILLESPIE 


he uttered Gillespie’s name. Maclean, tugging fiercely at 
his grey moustache, stood looking down at him. The 
policeman’s eyes were hungrily fixed on the doctor, as if 
he were some divine oracle about to speak. But it was 
not Maclean who spoke. 

“ Jock’s ower quate, doctor,” moaned the blind mother. 
Maclean was gnawing savagely at the grey moustache. 
When people met him in the street pulling at that mous- 
tache they left him alone. It was over that moustache 
he fought many a death-and-life case. 

A faint, indistinct whispering came from the bed. It 
sounded grotesque from such a man. The blind woman 
pricked her ears ; but a heavy gust of wind boomed in the 
chimney, and the rain cried on the window. 

“ Ower quate, doctor; ower quate. He’s takin’ the 
high road aifter his faither.” 

The policeman leaned tremblingly forward to gape 
upon Maclean’s face, as if he were indeed about to summon 
the dread Angel. 

“ Ay ! damn it ! ” cried the doctor, spitting out the end 
of his moustache, and the tears welling in his eyes ; “ but 
we’ll send him out easy.” 

The breathing suddenly became laboured, and the 
whites of the eyes rolled upwards. Gillespie, who was 
watching, turned away and looked into the fire. The head 
jerked upwards with every breath and fell forward again. 
A choking gurgle rolled in the throat. 

The blind woman stretched out her hands over the bed, 
and turned her face upwards to the ceiling. 

“ Behold, the Bridegroom cometh,” she cried, “ for you, 
Jock, my son.” 

The laboured breathing ceased : the eyes were fixed 
upwards in a heavy stare. The mouth hung open, with 
the drooping ends of the black moustache falling over the 
lip. A deep silence filled the room. Every eye there was 


GILLESPIE 89 

upon the face of Jock o’ the Patch, except Gillespie’s and 
the blind mother’s. 

“ Dhia ! Dhia ! ” whispered the policeman ; “ iss he 
gone ? ” 

No one answered. 

The wind moaned in a long sough down the street and 
whined in the chimney. 

Tick-tack ! tick-tack ! the wag-at-the-wa’ hammered 
the moments upon the anvil of eternity. 

Maclean stepped to the bed and stooped down to the 
wide-open mouth. Then he raised his tall form, turned 
and gazed at Gillespie. 

“ The Bridegroom has come,” he said, in a low, solemn 
voice. 

Thus, as the cocks were crying towards the winter dawn, 
Jock o’ the Patch, the one man whom Gillespie feared, 
having died, Gillespie conceived that the stars were 
fighting for him in their courses. He was beginning to 
learn that Death is a more powerful lever than Life. 


CHAPTER XII 


Another circumstance Gillespie took blithely as the 
result of those excellent warring stars. Morag Logan was 
pregnant. This would force him to marry earlier than he 
had anticipated, and make the dismissal of Galbraith’s 
widow at Whitsunday easy. She was bound to see in 
reason that she could not remain where a young wife was 
coming. 

He was on his way now to Nathanael McAskill to have 
his agreement with Lonend drawn out in proper form. 
This gentleman was nicknamed the Spider — a tall, one- 
eyed man, thin as a wire, with spindly legs, who had the 
appearance of bearing down upon one like a landslide. 
He was learned in the filthy secrets of the town, and had 
the look of a lean fox as he hung in the offing like a pirate, 
and came to heel at a nod. He was a suave liar. His 
clean-shaven face was smoothed with perjury. He was 
relied upon at certain festivities as a singer of indecent 
songs. This was his popular accomplishment. He knew 
law, and had been a clever student at Glasgow University 
in the old days, when the University was situate in the 
High Street. He was especially clever at conveyancing ; 
had no friends or relatives ; was one of that sort of miser- 
able men whose name was most frequently used as a sub- 
ject for a jibe ; and he was so degraded that he acquiesced 
in the jibe. One can imagine him fawning upon the devil 
when Satan gathered him by main force to the Pit. No 
one believed that he could be herded there by wile. 

He was bland as wine and as sparkling, when men 
90 


GILLESPIE 


91 


hatched plots with him, and the whisky was between them. 
His lean face would be eagerly cocked, his single eye 
bright, like a pecking bird’s, and his tongue ready either 
for defamation, a witticism, or a story, as it suited the 
humour of his client. But there was nothing rapacious 
in him or venomous. He simply did sharp things to 
satisfy the cunning of his nature. Altogether too silky 
and sleuth-like, and a dangerous tool; but a golden 
solicitor ; for he was such a despised devil that retaliation 
was sure to fall upon him and not upon his client. There- 
fore, when Gillespie buttoned up the agreement and 
walked out of his dingy office, saying it would take more 
than Lonend’s teeth to bite through the bargain, and that 
he would see the lawyer later, Nathanael McAskill wetted 
his thin lips with the point of his tongue and smiled, 
recognising that he had met a rogue peer to himself. 

Gillespie called at the bank. This was in answer to 
the summons which Mr. Lowrie had sent him. But Mr. 
Lowrie was out, the clerk informed him. Gillespie was 
pleased at the clerk’s deference, and, in good humour, 
went to Lonend, whom he found threshing corn in a huge 
machine which perambulated the county, and for whose 
hire he paid at the rate of seven-and-six an hour. 

We carry our coffins on hand-spokes to the graveyard, 
each man taking turn and turn about. The chief mour- 
ners walk ahead of the coffin; cousins, uncles, nephews, 
and the like behind; after whom trails the line of the 
procession. Lonend had walked with the Laird, who was 
present at the obsequies of one of his farmers, and, sound- 
ing him, arranged in a fashion for the transfer of the farm. 
At first the Laird was averse, but, learning of Galbraith’s 
debt to Gillespie and that the widow was bankrupt, 
haltingly gave his consent. He was glad to have such 
strong tenants as Lonend and Gillespie Strang. Lonend 


92 


GILLESPIE 


learned that at Whitsunday next three years' rent would 
be due on the Muir head farm. The lease would be trans- 
ferred to them jointly in their names. The Laird fancied 
it had some four or five years to run, but wasn’t sure. 

Lonend told all this to Gillespie as they walked slowly 
from the barn door to the house ; but when Lonend saw 
the legal document spread before him on the kitchen table 
he hesitated. 

“ It’s you that’s in for the fat o’ the ham.” Lonend had 
had time to think. Secretly he was not without bowels 
of pity for his neighbour, Mrs. Galbraith. “ Ye’ll get a 
sittin’ doon, an’ ye’re takin’ Morag frae me. I’ll hae to 
fee a servant noo to fill her place. I’m kin’ o’ sweert to 
venture it.” 

In point of fact the trouble was not the hiring of an 
additional servant. Lonend was inordinately proud of 
his daughter, and lavished all the affection of his nature 
upon her. He was doubtful if Gillespie would make her 
happy. 

“ ‘ Hoots ! ” cried Gillespie ; “ never heed lossin’ the milk, 
if ye get the cream. What’s the sense o’ ye speirin’ the 
Laird an’ me peyin’ for this ” — he laid his forefinger on 
the legal document — “if it’s a’ goin’ to end in smock? 
Ye’ll only mak’ a fule o’ the hale business.” Which 
decided the wavering Lonend. He tried to draw the 
sleep-hindering thorn from his conscience. 

“ M y grandfaither used tae say when a sheep broke 
awa’ at the clippin’, ‘Let her go; she’ll no’ leave the 
ferm.’ ” 

“ We ll no’ be in ony hurry wi’ the ewe ’’—and Gillespie 
smiled. Having placated his conscience, Lonend became 
pleasant to his future son-in-law. 

“ Ye ’ ve fa ’ en on your feet, Gillespie. Though ye put 
your hand in a ballot-box ye couldna be luckier,” and he 
took up the pen and signed. The business being com- 


GILLESPIE 


93 


pleted, he was anxious to be rid of both the document and 
the man. “I snowkit snaw in the west. I’ll best go 
get her in the sheep. There was frost in the stars last 
nicht.” Gillespie did not seek to detain him. He was in 
a hurry to inform Mrs. Galbraith of the state of affairs. 

Lonend, on his way to the thresher, found Morag at 
the gate of the yard looking after Gillespie, who had met 
her and, saying it was gey and snell, was passing on 
when Morag asked him if she would see him that night. 
Gillespie had reluctantly promised. Lonend looked 
after the retreating figure, tall, sturdy and broad. 

“ Ay, Morag ! a God-fearin’, rabbit-stealin’ man. 
He’s gettin’ his name up.” And Lonend passed on to his 
hired machine. 

With Mrs. Galbraith Gillespie used as little ceremony 
as a dog uses. He told her of the new agreement made 
with the Laird, and that come Whitsun the farm would 
change hands. She offered her furniture and plenishing 
in lieu of the arrears of rent. Gillespie took her squarely 
between the eyes. The furniture was not hers, but his. 

“ Won’t you give me time ? I’ll work hard. Every 
penny will go to your account.” She was ashamed to 
have to beg at his hands. 

“ No, Mrs. Galbraith, I’ll no’ chance it. It’s no’ every 
man that can sweem when it comes to a broken brig.” 

Her large red face took on a deeper flush. 

“You know it has been a very wet harvest, Mr. 
Strang,” she pleaded. 

“ That’s the hand o’ Goad, no’ mine,” he answered 
softly. 

She smiled grimly at him. “ So I am a pauper, and 
must leave the farm — through the hand of God ? ” 

“ There’s nae use timmin’ yer ain mooth to fill ither 
folk’s,” he answered. 


94 


GILLESPIE 


Gillespie felt thoroughly at his ease. He had talked 
the farm into his hands; yet wanted a servant. Mrs. 
Galbraith’s next question gave him his chance. 

“ Is that all you have to say, Mr. Strang ? ” 

“ Weel, Mrs. Galbraith, ye dinna expec’ me to pey 
Galbraith’s lawin’ at Brodie’s. That poor fugleman ” — 
this was a common word of contempt on Gillespie’s 
tongue — “ ye see the wy he’s left you wi’ his ongoin’s.” 
She watched the tip of his tongue jerk backwards and 
forwards, gleaming inside his mouth. It reminded her 
of a snake’s head swaying above its body prepared to 
strike. Maliciously he evoked the misdeeds of Galbraith’s 
spent years out of an oblivion where most people would 
have left them buried. He was practised in attaching 
blame in other quarters — with a show of justice. “ A 
poor fugleman,” he continued, and, putting on a pitying 
face, added, “ but ye’re among freens, Marget. Nobody’s 
axin’ ye to leave the ferm. Ye’re welcome to bide.” 

Mrs. Galbraith cut him off abruptly. “ The farm is 
mine till the term.” 

“ Maybe, Marget, maybe ; but, ye see, ye’re awin’ me 
fower hunner an’ saxty pun’. I’m no’ pressin’ ye. Bide 
on the ferm. It ’ll no’ be said that Gillespie Strang 
turned ye to the door.” 

Pride, shame, mortification struggled on her face. 

“ I remain as your servant.” 

No ! no ! Marget : ye’ll just bide an’ dae your bit 
turns, an tak the bite an’ sup that’s goin’. I’ve gotten 
another man for Jock’s place. Dinna tak’ things to he’rt. 
Brocken ships whiles come to land.” 

The shadow from the woman’s tortured soul vanished 
off her face. Her home was still to be hers. She pressed 
her hand over her left breast, where a great fear had been 
gnawing. 


GILLESPIE 


95 


“ I ken ye’ll keep things snog an’ be earefu’ o’ the gear.” 

Mrs. Galbraith bowed her head in silence ; and silently 
accepted the successor of Jock o’ the Patch, whom 
Gillespie had feed at the Bannerie market — a lean-faced 
man with a withered red beard ; a needle-looking wretch, 
hooked in the nose and hollow in the eye, that brazened 
one out; a penurious, hungry watch-dog, the descend- 
ant of a race of cattle-lifters and plunderers. His 
small, predatory eyes roved the farm-steading like a 
hawk’s. 

There are times when the most self-opinionated are 
influenced by an outside judgment. This was the case 
with Mrs. Galbraith, to whom Mary Bunch paid a con- 
solatory flying visit that same evening. Expertly she 
platitudinised after her kind, having first of all made a 
sally in the direction of the bottle. “ I’m that sair 
harashed wi’ a pain in my heid. My sight’s failin’ me 
terrible, Marget. It's worse since I fell doon the stairs 
an’ got a crack on the broo.” 

With a sympathetic glass in her hand she comforted. 
“ Ye’re no’ tae tak’ on, Marget. We must submit tae 
His wull. Time’ll bring its ain balm.” She tested the 
strength of the liquid and polished her nose with the back 
of her hand. She was finding Mrs. Galbraith preoccupied 
and irresponsive. Sorrow will alone cure sorrow, and so 
she said, “ I was maist he’rtbroken when Jonsac ” — this 
was her first husband — “when poor Jonsac was ca’ed 
awa’. He strained himsel’ over a rope at the fushin’ an’ 
took the dropsy. It’s me had the trial wi’ him. We 
thocht he’d never win awa’. He stood stickin’ five times 
tae let oot the watter, an’ him fair sclimmin’ the wa’s wi’ 
pain. Deary me ! thon was a sicht. The last time he 
lifted up his shirt himsel’ tae gie Dr. Maclean a chance. 
‘ Ach, doctor,’ sez he, ‘ I think the hale Loch o’ watter ’s 


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inside me.’ His side was fair hacked, poor Jonsac. An’ 
noo Erchie’s weirin’ his seal-skin wescut.” By this Mary 
Bunch hinted that there are as good husbands in the sea 
as ever came out of it. 

“I am not concerned about the loss of my husband : 
it is the loss of the farm which is troubling me. It belongs 
to Mr. Gillespie Strang.” 

Gillespie, for reasons of his own, wanted to keep the 
matter quiet. Mrs. Galbraith calmly announced the fact, 
as she would have announced anything, from the shame of 
her own house to the visit of an angel. 

Mary Bunch cast a searing light upon Gillespie’s 
character. She spoke shrilly, decisively : 

“ The nyaf ! I met him on the brae, an’ wondered 
where he was stravaigin’. He’d a lip on, the soor deevil, 
ye could dance the Hielan’ fling on. Dinna ax peety o’ 
him; there’s nane in the marrow o’ his briest banes.” 
The opinion of the Pump is at times not without its value. 

“ I don’t want pity ; I want justice.” 

Mary Bunch assumed a face of scorn. “ Justice frae 
a wulk-picker. A man wi’ the pack aye on his back 
doesna ken the name o’ justice. Ay sook, sookin’ awa’ 
lik’ a leech. That’s Gillespie.” 

Morag watched for her lover in a twilight snow. Before 
Gillespie reached home the snow had stilled the land, and 
the hills stood white down to a black harbour. 

“The snow has gruppit a’ thing,” Gillespie said to 
his mother, as he shook himself at the back door of the 
“ Ghost.” This was an excuse for absenting himself from 
Lonend. 

Morag looked across the trackless fields in vain for her 
lover, who had failed at the tryst. 

Mrs. Galbraith was of the old-fashioned school, who 


GILLESPIE 


97 


keep by them the dead-clothes. That night she solemnly 
dressed herself in the sacred garments, her raven hair 
standing out against the white linen. “ My life is dead,” 
she moaned, as she lay down on the bed in which her 
husband had died. The angel of blight had shaken his 
despair upon her from his sombre wings. The angel of 
vengeance was yet to pass by her lintel. 


i. 


CHAPTER XIII 

The people of Brieston were accustomed to send their 
children with jugs to one or two people in the town who 
kept cows, and buy milk at their doors. Gillespie ordered 
a brand-new milk-cart, grooved for three six-gallon 
barrels, and brought the milk to the doors of Brieston 
evening and morning, summoning the household by bell. 
Sandy the Fox — he soon won his name — drove the cart. 
Gillespie accurately measured the milk into the barrel 
that the Fox might not cheat. Lonend was in a rage; 
he had not been consulted. He was not a partner yet, 
and had to keep his mouth shut ; but it gave him a fore- 
taste of the man. Lonend became moody and suspicious, 
and would have kept his daughter from Gillespie had he 
not seen her grow big with child. 

Mrs. Galbraith had settled down to the new conditions 
of life, and was disposed to forget her suspicions of 
Gillespie, chiefly through the friendship of his parents, 
for Mrs. Strang yet paid an infrequent visit to Muir head, 
and would have come oftener, but the long brae tried her 
breathing. Mrs. Galbraith, indeed, was beginning to take 
her tenure as secure when, without warning, Gillespie 
demanded a settlement. He laid before her certain slips 
of paper, all signed by her husband, promising to pay divers 
sums, amounting in all to £458. Interest, he pointed out, 
was due at the rate of five per cent. In this he lied, for 
he had yearly extorted the interest from Galbraith. The 
security was the furniture, plenishing, and gear of the 
farm. Mrs. Galbraith, numb with bewilderment, stared at 

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99 


Gillespie and, when she found her voice, said, “ I thought 
it was arranged that I should stay on at the farm.” 

No one would be more pleased than himself, but he 
was to be married to Morag Logan at the term. It was 
in reason that Mrs. Galbraith must leave. The furniture 
was old, and a good deal decayed ; Galbraith had not kept 
his farm implements up to date. It would be best to have 
the whole movables valued. Gillespie fancied they would 
not cover his debt, but he would be lenient, and write off 
the debt against the movables. She must, however, move 
at the term. There was a hint of menace in his voice. 
He struck his trouser-leg with a switch to drive home his 
sour news. 

Mrs. Galbraith went to Lonend, and found him wrath - 
fully impotent. 

“ There’s naething to be done, Marget, but go hame and 
greet.” 

She held up her shapely dark head. “I’ll want to see 
Mr. Strang’s tears first,” she answered. 

“ The damn wolf canna greet,” said Lonend, turning 
aside in sullen mood, a miserable man who was beginning 
to drink the brew of his sin. He spoke frankly, telling 
her of his daughter’s condition, and of the agreement 
which he had signed, wishing to God he had never put pen 
to paper. He advised Mrs. Galbraith to see the doctor 
to whom her husband had spoken of Gillespie. 

“ I was deceived in him, he is so big and soft-looking.” 
Thus Mrs. Galbraith thought as she descended the brae 
to Dr. Maclean’s house. He was at the bowling-green, 
Kyle, the chemist, informed her, and sent a boy for him. 
Maclean, a tall, broad, wiry man, was the light of the 
town ; a skilled practitioner, with a wide parish under his 
hand. He grudged no service, and brooded on his cases 
as he walked about the parish or tried to beat Brodie on 
the bowling-green. He was a handsome man, whom 


100 


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many women loved openly or in secret; a friend of the 
landed gentry ; a greater friend of the poor, to whom he 
rarely sent an account. It was said that he was somewhat 
rough with his patients, but Kyle asserted that he had 
seen the doctor “ greetin’ like a waen ” for some young 
man or woman whose case was hopeless, and his driver 
said that on weary journeys to the country, the doctor 
would ask strange questions after long intervals of medi- 
tation, as “ What is God ? Where did God come from ? 
What is the use of praying into space ? If you 
answer me properly I’ll give you a drink at Mainsfoot 
Inn.” Here Pat would wink to his audience and say, 
“Well, doctor, I can tell you wan thing; there’s some 
use o’ me prayin’ into space.” 

“ How’s that ? ” 

“lam praying for that drink.” 

And the doctor’s big cheery laugh would roll across the 
horse’s head. But he was too extravagant, the minister’s 
sister always said, with a sigh. 

“ If he has got money in his pocket for the day it’s all 
he cares. It s a shame that his house is allowed to go to 
wreck and ruin with servants. He needs a wife.” 

All the Pump knew that the minister’s sister would 
walk from the Manse to the doctor’s house barefoot for 
his smile. Hullo, Marget,” he cried cheerily, coming 
into the surgery ; then, seeing her face, added : 

“ Come away upstairs and pour out my tea; I’ll give 
you some ham.” 

“ Thank you, doctor, not this evening,” and lifting a 
brave, smiling face she told him her tale. She knew that 
here she would get the truth from one who was without 
stain of cloth. He spoke no words of pity, but told her 
abruptly that Galbraith and Gillespie had had a scene in 
the Laigh Park. Gillespie taunted her husband, and 
threatened to roup him out of house and home. The 


GILLESPIE 


101 


doctor was of opinion that this had induced Galbraith’s 
end. Maclean told also of the warning of Jock o’ the 
Patch. 

“ You’re in the hands of a Jew, Marget,” he ended. 

“ A murderer and a thief,” she cried. 

“I’d give five hundred down to bring Calum’s death 
home to him ; but it’s impossible,” the doctor said sadly. 

The woman’s face underwent a rapid change. Light 
blazed in her dark eyes. “ This morning I thought he 
only stole my home ” — even that thought seemed to 
suffocate her — “ my home ; the morning and the birds in 
the trees ; oh ! I used to thank God for the light of another 
day when I heard them singing. And the cattle rowting 
on the moor. He has stolen from me summer and winter, 
spring and the harvest-time. What will they be to me 
now in the Back Street ? I’ll never know the spring 
coming there, or see the wind in the corn or the lea rig 
white with frost. He’s robbed me — the home . . — her 

voice choked — “ my man ! he’s killed my man ! ” 

In her eyes he slew and then harried the slain. She leapt 
to her feet. “ I’ll never be content till the snow is his 
winding-sheet; till I see him without house or home or 
coffin.” 

“ Let him alone, Marget,” said Maclean in a hard voice. 
“ He’ll maybe find out that a man can buy gold too dear.” 

She laughed fiercely. 

“ Thanks, thanks, Mr. Gillespie Strang ; I thought my 
life was empty, but it is not so now.” . . . 

“ Kyle,” said the doctor, as Mrs. Galbraith passed 
through the shop, “ make up this medicine for Marget ” 
—the doctor looked up at her from writing the pre- 
scription — “ she’s a bit run down.” 

Ah ! the common people could not analyse their affection 
for Dr. Maclean, because they could not analyse tact. He 
once said to Brodie, when that individual questioned him 


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GILLESPIE 


on an obscure case which puzzled gossip, “ Ah ! Brodie, a 
doctor is a man who will have many secrets buried with 
him.” After that Brodie, one of the few who was 
privileged to sit with the doctor o’ nights in his smoking- 
room, durst ask him no more questions. 


CHAPTER XIV 

That night Mrs. Galbraith walked in the low field at 
the sea beneath the pine-wood, brooding. She was a 
woman who, by nature, found in every one something to 
appreciate ; some gift, aptitude, or virtue. Gillespie had 
trailed humanity in the mire. Living so much on 
Thomas a Kempis, she could not conceive that a pre- 
datory beast inhabited a human frame. Her face was 
swollen, her thick, glossy hair blown awry in the high 
sea- wind. She walked in a garment of misery, as she 
adjusted life to a new balance, seeing more steadfastly 
its heaven and its hell, and how the adversity of one is the 
prosperity of another. 

She turned and gazed at the farmhouse. It was cheap, 
jerry-built, and the deafening poor. It sounded like 
thunder in the kitchen below when one walked overhead. 
The windows rattled in the wind. Galbraith had fash- 
ioned wedges of wood to jam them tight. The wedges 
were always kept ready on the sills against a high wind. 
The rain leaked in on stormy nights. She understood 
now why her husband was averse to asking the Laird for 
repairs. 

But for all that it was ramshackle, the roots of her life 
had gone deep there. She had never lived under any 
other roof for twenty-six years. The ancient cry of all 
races that are not Bedouin was born in the travail of her 
breast. “ Home, Sweet Home.” Soon she would sleep 
no more beneath that roof, or find her place familiar with 

103 


104 


GILLESPIE 


the morning light. She recalled her home-coming with 
her husband. He was then a tall, supple, young man, 
thin-faced, with laughing grey eyes ; alert, handsome. 

“ This is your home now, wife,” he said. 

She felt he was offering her his life, and had been in- 
expressibly touched ; and now that fount of tenderness, 
perennial all these many years, was dried up. She was 
puzzled at the triumph of evil, at the suffering of the 
righteous. 

“ The sun touches your window in the morning.” He 
had remembered her love of the dawn. Now this pirate, 
with his carrion eyes and expressionless face, had told her 
she must go. He had been deadly suave about it. She 
remembered a blackbird which, a fortnight ago, she had 
found stiff with frost. She shivered, as if the blight of 
frost had touched herself. She recalled Gillespie’s sour 
smile, the leprosy of his deprecating eyes, his wolfish face, 
and clenched her hand till the nails sunk in her flesh. She 
looked at the house seated on the brae-head, grey, cold, 
darkling. It flashed upon her that it, too, was mourning. 
The desolate house and she were merged in a common 
grief. She had a vision of Galbraith, who would come 
there no more, stooping at the door, bent as tall men are, 
gaunt, putting down his feet slowly one after the other, 
as if they, too, were heavy with care and weariness, 
coming from the kitchen window to meet her. 

“ Ye bring the sea up wi’ ye on your face,” he used to 
say, on her return from her evening walk. He was filling 
his pipe, thrusting in the tobacco from his palm with his 
forefinger. It was this last touch, domestic and of a 
man, that filled her breast with the wild longing which 
surges within us for that which, precious and now lost, 
leaves behind a dreary emptiness. She turned away a 
face of inexpressible woe from beholding the house, the 
tears smarting in her eyes. 


GILLESPIE 


105 


“ Oh, dear God, I think my heart will break.” The 
words came in dry sobs which shook her frame. She 
brushed her hand across her eyes, sank upon her knees, 
fronting the sea, and lifted her face to where a single star, 
high in the zenith, blinked down at her. 

“ Give me strength, Almighty God, to endure,” and 
covering her face with her hands, she invoked vengeance. 
“ I want vengeance,” and, horror-stricken at the thought 
of plucking this prerogative from the Eternal, she arose 
and went towards the house to consult the oracle in which 
she had perfect faith. She passed into the kitchen and 
locked the door. If Gillespie were to come he would have 
to remain without ; but Gillespie was at Lonend, arranging 
the details of his entry at the term. He did not come that 
night, because it is not given to mortals to behold the slow 
unveiling of the white throne of justice. 

In times of crisis she was wont to consult the Bible, 
taking oracularly the first verse which her eye lit upon. 
One child had been born to her, which fell ill at the age 
of five months. She sought the Bible and read, “ The 
child also that is born unto thee shall surely die.” She 
watched Maclean’s efforts almost with pity; and when 
her babe died upon her knee at eventide, she looked down 
at the waxen face in stony grief and acquiescence. 

Her ancestors had believed in elves and fairies, and the 
little folk dancing in the glades in the moonlight. Her 
intellect was powerful; but the superstition that is the 
second oldest stratum of human nature was awakened, 
and the dominance of her intellect and her will-power were 
concentrated on the rite. Her mouth was a thin line of 
determination, and her eyes had a profound contemplative 
look. She closed them as if peering into the future, and 
opened the great Bible. A leaf fluttered out of her 
fingers and sagged over with a thin crinkling sound. 
She opened her eyes slowly, and betrayed no emotion or 


106 GILLESPIE 

surprise, though the letters ran in forms of fire as she 
chanted aloud : 

“ Be not deceived ; God is not mocked : for whatsoever 
a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” Thrice she read 
the words, graving them on the granite of her resolution. 
She had been nurtured in a school of grim theology, and 
the mantle of prophesy fell easily upon her. She saw the 
sword of vengeance bared in her hand. A sinister aspect 
of life seized her mind as the idea of revenge fast settled 
there. Something of the recording angel, napoleonic in 
its proportions, entered her soul. She imagined herself 
in that moment to be standing at the bar of the Last 
Judgment, accusing Gillespie before the great White 
Throne. The justice of heaven could not exact retribution 
without her instrumentality. She was the vicar of the 
wrath of God, and the blood of her husband would cry 
up from the earth night and day till she had extorted the 
uttermost farthing in the price of her revenge. She would 
dog the man; track him like a sleuth-hound. Life 
became large and terrible with purpose. Divine punish- 
ment would fall on her own head if she proved a traitor, 
and the dead would be washed from his grave and con- 
demn her if she failed to keep her grim tryst with Gillespie. 
She sat down and bent the resources of her intellect to the 
task. Hour after hour passed as she sat in the dark beside 
the open Bible, fixed like a rock. The wind cried round 
the gable-end, but she heard nothing, for she had entered 
into the grave beside her husband, and came forth carrying 
his secret torture, with the grey look of the dead upon her 
face. Plan after plan arose like waves out of a yeasty 
gloom, only to fall back on the granite cliffs of her resolve ; 
and each time she was baulked her large dark eyes swept 
across the pale page where a line of fire was burning. 

God is not mocked ” — the words rang in her ears like 
thunder— 1 “for whatsoever a man soweth , that shall he 


GILLESPIE 


107 


also reap” The irony of Gillespie’s position struck her, 
and she smiled grimly. 

The sudden fluting of an early bird in the trees aroused 
her, and she thought how the vale of crying birds, where 
the wild pigeons haunt the fir-wood with unfatigued wing, 
would be hers no more. The song died away, as if the 
bewildered bird were questing for the tardy dawn. It 
rippled in song once more; then the wind washed over 
the tree-tops, soughing restlessly, and there was silence. 
She arose, shivering with the cold, and extinguished the 
lamp, and saw the fresh trees swaying in the wind as if 
they, too, with the baffled bird and herself, were seeking, 
seeking eternally. 

“ We’ve drifted far before the wind, our house; we’ve 
a heavy leeway to make up,” she muttered, looking at the 
frail dawn. And the pilot of that broken ship went back 
to the Big Chart lying open on the table. Bending down, 
she kissed the book, and then went heavily upstairs to her 
room. 

She did not dress herself in the dead-clothes. 


CHAPTER XV 


Towards noon Mrs. Galbraith rose, and, as she dressed, 
pondered on her husband, whom lately she had ceased 
to love. He had become coarse, rude, blasphemous in 
drink ; ungainly about the farm, ill-dressed, and dirty ; 
and even more gawky on market-days and on Sundays, 
when he dressed in broadcloth — a grey, stooping, withered 
man, knock-kneed, loose- jointed. He slavered at the 
mouth when he was in a rage, and his temper was short 
and hot. But she had respected him. He had wooed 
her with hot ardour, riding through the night on a coal- 
black mare to see her. He had given her a good home, 
had been faithful to her, was proud of her accomplish- 
ments, of which he had boasted on market-days at the 
Inn. Though she had complained of the house as naked- 
looking, severe, with rattling windows and cold, draughty 
passages that had killed her only child, yet now its precious 
associations were poignantly remembered — the song and 
the dance when she played at Yuletide in the parlour, and 
the kitchen was loud with the thunder of dancing feet; 
birth, death, and friendship ; these things had hallowed its 
walls and made sacred its chambers. “ Surely I have 
eaten the bread of affliction,” she cried as she descended 
the narrow stair to the kitchen. 

Tick-tack, tick-tack, the pendulum of the kitchen wag- 
at-the-wa’ answered. The big brass hand jerked spas- 
modically on the dial, like a dead limb that has been 
galvanised. These sounds in the still kitchen became 
sombre, measuring time with the aloofness and im- 
partiality of a god. Tick-tack, every moment nearer the 

108 


GILLESPIE 


109 


time of her departure from the farm cried aloud. In the 
sound she heard a silvery bell, whose echo was melting 
away into a great vastness where, when it died, the hour 
of her exodus would strike. She felt it was impossible 
for her to abide that moment. The minute-hand jerked 
again with a sudden spurt of malice. Now it seemed to 
sweep devouringly over a greater arc of the dial’s face. 
Was she to go on daily watching it, her heart’s blood drip, 
dripping away from her ? For a quarter of a century she 
had regulated her comings and goings by that clock, and 
had never noticed the terror of the hand before. Jerk ! 
jerk ! it reminded her of a raven she had once seen 
plunging his hot beak in the carcase of a sheep and tossing 
it up with bloody fragment in the air. Jerk ! jerk ! the 
beak of time was picking at her life. She would go mad 
if she waited through the days and watched. She formed 
a sudden resolution. She would not wait in her con- 
demned cell till the twelfth hour and the executioner. 
She opened the clock door and stopped the pendulum. 

“ I am finished here,” she said, and went out to take 
farewell of the fields and the woods. 

The grass was green as emerald. The pale light of 
primroses haunted the burn. A wild cherry-tree there 
was white as snow. The clay of the deeply-rutted cart- 
road shone like gold. Hillock and mound swelled away 
like waves of the sea, full of inlets, nooks, and glades right 
up to the Planting. She had watched that wood in all 
seasons. Sometimes it had appeared to her in leafless 
winter like an army with spears watching upon the hill 
over against the sea ; when stiff with frost it was a giant 
foreland, upon whose forehead had frozen the foam of 
the ocean. In summer Pan drove stallions through it, 
shaking multitudinous bells. In autumn it was an army 
bivouacked in blood. To-day it was beaten, slain, 
broken; the light of the babe eyes of spring had been 


110 


GILLESPIE 


quenched upon its face. She interpreted the wood with 
her own personality. She was defeated, beaten. She 
passed through the little wooden gate at the end of the 
cart-track above the burn, and sat down on the moss in 
the lee of the wood, pine-sheltered from the cold sea-wind. 
From where she sat she saw the low, rambling farmhouse, 
its whitewashed walls stained with the rains. A cart was 
uptilted at the byre-end. The shafts raised impotent arms 
to the sky. There was a deep silence about the place. 
The fields, the hills, the wood, the farm-steading were 
robbed of life ; buried with her husband. A heavy sense 
of loss besieged her. It begat pain. She tried to repress 
the welling tears. She was amazed when she heard her- 
self sobbing. A tramp passed along the high road, carry- 
ing a bundle in a red handkerchief. She bent her head 
as he went by. Her throat was hot and burning. Pres- 
ently she raised it again toweringly, shaking the tear-drops 
from her eyelids ; but at the first glance at the farm an 
incontinent sobbing broke forth, her breast heaving con- 
vulsively. Life, she knew, had missed its completion; 
without child, without husband, without home. “ What 
have I done ? what have I done ? I have been a good 
woman ” — the anguished thought kept ranging her mind. 
The hopes she had thought to realise were broken ; failure, 
disappointment, disillusion were her portion; the locust 
had eaten the grey years. Last night she had been 
possessed with lust of vengeance. Now she recognised 
that malice dies, grief dies ; shame, remorse, scorn die ; 
nothing remains but profound, desolating sadness. She 
became afraid of this weary weight of loss and loneliness — 
afraid that it would unnerve her hand and leave Gillespie 
untouched. The anguish became so intolerable that she 
struggled to her feet, overwhelmed with a feeling of 
pusillanimity and cowardice ; then sank down again, with 
her face turned from watching the farm. It was the 


GILLESPIE 


111 


desolation there which turned her blood to water. Her 
jewel was in the mire ; she was dispossessed of something 
that was eternal; she saw her life in chains, hanging in 
the wind of fate; the delicate porcelain of life was in 
fragments beneath the ruthless heels of a thief and 
murderer. She writhed. Her body was passing in the 
midst of fire. She leapt up from her vigil with blood in 
the palms of her hand. The atrophy of anguish had 
passed away. She had crossed the border-line of pain, 
and drew out of the battle with a stone where her heart 
had been, and her sunken eyes shining with the fires of 
revenge which ate into her soul. 

At the whin bush on the cart-road, where Gillespie and 
Lonend’s daughter had become betrothed, she swiftly 
turned aside, and went down to the pool in the burn. 
Stooping, she washed her hands in the dark water. The 
act was symbolic. She was a priestess purifying herself 
to lift the knife upon the altar. When she reached the 
farmhouse she closed and locked the door. The next hour 
she spent rummaging through the house. She packed 
her clothes and treasures — a few books, two photographs, 
a gold locket with the wisp of a child’s hair within. She 
carried the bags to the barn, deposited them there, locked 
the door, and put the key in her pocket. She returned 
to the kitchen, sat down at the table, marked the verse 
in the Bible heavily with ink, then, with steady hand, 
wrote for a minute on a large sheet of paper. She took a 
hammer and a box of tacks from a shelf in the scullery, 
and tacked the paper on to the front door. She returned 
to the kitchen and, with the hammer-head, stopped the 
pendulum of the grandfather’s clock. There was another 
clock in the parlour. This she also stopped. A smile of 
irony played on her face as she moved about the house. 
Her last act was to extinguish the kitchen fire with a pail- 
ful of water. She backed away from the cloud of dust 


112 


GILLESPIE 


and steam. “ Dust to dust,” she muttered, and flung the 
pail in a corner. It trailed round slowly till it rested on 
the handle. The hissing in the fireplace died away, and 
a profound silence fell on the mangled kitchen. She 
flung the door wide open; walked down the passage, 
pulled the front door open, and passed out into the 
dancing spring sunshine. The first act of revenge 
was committed. There were still three weeks to run 
till the term-day. She took her portmanteau from the 
barn, leaving the door agape, carried it down the cart- 
road, and hid it among the whin bushes above the burn. 
She never returned to the farmhouse. 

On the morning of the next day old Mr. Strang called 
at the house of Muirhead Farm with some salt herring, 
which his wife had sent to Mrs. Galbraith. Having read 
the placard on the door, he crossed the brae and told 
Lonend that his neighbour’s house was deserted, and the 
doors were banging about in the wind. The house, he 
said, was uncanny. He left the salt herring with Morag, 
went home, and kept silent before his wife. Lonend had 
asked him to send up Gillespie at once. Together they 
crossed over the brae, and through the edge of the Laigh 
Park at the Planting, and came up the cart-road. Lonend 
was silent, chewing a straw. Against his better judgment 
he felt himself being dragged into a scandal. A dull rage 
against Gillespie was smouldering in his mind. The 
matter of the milk-cart still rankled ; and now this. 

“ There’s something no’ richt aboot the hoose,” he 
burst out savagely, his wiry black moustache bristling, as 
his eye rested around its smokeless chimneys. “It’s like 
a place o’ the deid.” 

“ It was aye a wee thing deid an’ alive,” answered 
Gillespie blithely. 

“ By Goad,” snarled Lonend, “ ye’ve gien’t the feen- 
ishin’ touch.” 


GILLESPIE 113 

“ Hoots, man ! I winna fly intae a pawshun because a 
lum’s no’ reekin’.” 

“ I’d raither see’t on fire,” snapped Lonend, biting on 
the straw. The feeling of desolation in a forsaken home- 
stead touched Lonend. 

“ There’s somethin’ gars my banes grue about thon ” — 
he nodded towards the house — “ it only wants the corbies 
sittin’ on the riggin’.” 

“Nonsense,” said Gillespie, breathing a little rapidly; 
“ the hoose is a’ richt. I wush everything was as weel.” 

Lonend strode through the wooden gate, his wiry, alert 
form moving as on springs. 

“ Look at the windas,” he muttered. 

“ What’s wrong wi’ the windas ; needin’ cleanin’ ? ” 

“ They’re deid,” replied Lonend sharply, “ deid an’ 
blin’ lik’ the eyes o’ a corp.” 

They entered the farmyard. The silence was op- 
pressive. 

“No’ even a cock-craw ” — Lonend spluttered a harsh 
laugh — “ man ! but ye hae the gran’ toom biggin’, 
Gillespie.” 

“ The cocks ’ill be reingin’ for guid coarn seed. Ye’ll 
hear them cryin’ brawly when their crap’s filled.” 

“ Ay ! ay ! the wy they cried to Peter the Apostle,” 
and Lonend turned sharply away. 

They crossed the steading. The stable and byre were 
empty ; the barn door wide open. 

“ I’m dootin’ I’ll maybe hae to speak to Sanny,” said 
Gillespie. His voice trembled a little. 

“ I’m dootin’ ay ! ” mocked Lonend. 

They went round the corner of the house in Indian file, 
Lonend leading, and reached the front door. It was 
swinging idly in the breeze. They came to a halt in their 
tracks, staring. Suddenly Lonend closed his right hand. 
He had searched for the damning placard of which 
i 


114 GILLESPIE 

Gillespie’s father had told him, and recalled the old man’s 
words : 

“ There’s a wee bit writin’ yonder on the wall. I 
kenna wha’ the Belshazzar is.” 

With the stump of his thumb projecting from his fist, 
Lonend pointed to the paper on the door. 

“ The shirra’s notiss,” he said. 

They stepped up to the door, shoulder to shoulder, and 
together, in silence, they read the large, clear lettering : 

THIS HOUSE IS DEAD. 

IT HAS BEEN MURDERED. 

IT IS BURIED IN THE GRAVE OF A WOMAN’S 
HEART. 

“ BE NOT DECEIVED ; GOD IS NOT MOCKED : FOR WHATSO- 
EVER A MAN SOWETH, THAT SHALL HE ALSO REAP.” 

The straw dropped from Lonend’s open mouth. 

“ It’s Goad’s shirra,” he said in a low voice. 

Gillespie turned pale about the lips; then the blood 
rushed to his face. 

“ A bonny lik’ joke,” he said; “ Marget’s put her 
learnin’ to grand use.” 

He tore the placard from the door, crumpled it up in 
his hand, and threw it on the path. He entered the 
passage, and Lonend, swiftly stooping, picked up the ball 
of paper and thrust it in his pocket. 

He heard Gillespie moving about on the stone-flagged 
kitchen floor as he stood without in the sunshine, wiping 
the sweat from his forehead with a red handkerchief. 

“ Come awa’ in here,” he heard Gillespie shout. 

Lonend made no answer, but cast a look of hatred 
towards the direction of the voice. Presently Gillespie 
appeared, his face flushed an angry red. 


GILLESPIE 


115 


“Come awa’ ben,” he cried; “ye never saw such 
damage an’ destruction since ye were craidled.” 

“No,” answered Lonend, stepping back and curling 
his lip, “ I’ll no’ cross the door.” 

Gillespie stamped on the threshold. 

“ I’ll hae the law o’ that wumman.” 

“ Wi’ the Spider ? A bonny feegur he’d mak’ in the 
Coort o’ Session.” Lonend sneered openly. 

“ The kitchen’s a’ a laggery o’ wreck wi’ rain an’ wun’. 
The grandfaither’s clock’s lyin’ in smithereens on the flure, 
an’ the back door’s open to the tide.” 

Lonend flamed up. 

“ What richt hae ye,” he cried, “ to be reingin’ through 
another wumman ’s hoose 1 ” 

Gillespie stared at Lonend with a stupefied look. 

“ Reingin’ ! wha’s a better richt to reinge ? ” 

“ Ye’ve nae richt to set fut ower that door till the 
term.” Lonend shut and opened his fists, his face black 
with rage. 

“ An’ let a’ thing gang tapsalteerie to the backside o’ 
the wun’ an’ rain. A bonny lik’ thing.” It was Gilles- 
pie’s turn to sneer. “ A bonny lik’ pickin’ aff a cleaned 
bone.” 

“ Pickin’ ! by Goad ; there’s nane for Hector Logan o’ 
the Lonen’. I aye cam’ by my money dacent, an’ no’ 
plunderin’ the weeda an’ puttin’ her oot o’ hoose an’ 
hame.” Gillespie backed into the passage, for Lonend’s 
eyes were flashing fire. 

“ See that ? ” he cried, and, whipping his hand into his 
jacket pocket, held aloft the paper. “ It’ll come on ye yet, 
for a’ your laawers.” He struck the paper sharply with 
his hand. “ You an’ me ’ill hae to pairt here, Gillespie. 
‘ This house is deid, deid an’ murdered ’ ” — he struck the 
wall twice with the flat of his hand — “ Ye can rob the corp 
gif ye hae the wull; but it’ll no’ be Hector Logan that 


116 


GILLESPIE 


’ill face up to Goad’s shirra wi’ the likes o’ you. I’m 
done wi’ ye.” He crammed the placard in his pocket. 

“ There’s another wee bit paper o’ McAskill’s ye’ll hae 
to dae wi’,” said Gillespie, with a grave face. 

“ To hell wi’ ye an’ the laawer ! ” cried Lonend, who 
wheeled and strode away, leaving Gillespie standing 
alone on the threshold of the deserted farmhouse. 


CHAPTER XVI 


We follow Mrs. Galbraith to her new home in the Back 
Street. No asylum is congenial, and hers was far from 
being a place in which to ponder upon the beauties of the 
Imitation , and study Beethoven and the Jacobite songs 
upon the piano. There were flights ; but of vastly differ- 
ent kind, irritating to one accustomed to the placidity of 
Muirhead Farm. It is true that they were of the common 
stuff of Back Street comedy ; but the comedy was a horror 
to her; its levity and vulgarity she assessed as an addi- 
tional debt to the black score which Gillespie owed her. 
He had driven her from home; he had pitchforked her 
into a welter of wrangling voices, sordid contumely, 
defiant recrimination, and the banal horse-play of life. 
Had she been a visitor she would have been tolerant, 
amused ; as a resident, forced to submit to these jests of 
Fate, whose waves rolled upon her, fast threatening to make 
her a denizen of the Back Street, her resentment against 
the initial author of her bitterness was increased two -fold. 
These vulgar bickerings were vinegar to her, and threat- 
ened to draw her into the mesh of Back Street life. She 
saw that with repetition she would become accustomed to 
these sallies, and gradually would be woven into the warp 
and woof of such a sordid existence. Once a denizen her 
purpose would be fatally weakened, for such people lived 
only for the day. She must have a house of her own, 
divorced from contact with all extraneous interests. 
Thus it came about that Mrs. Galbraith moved into a 
room beneath the thatch vacated by Janet Morgan, whose 

117 


118 


GILLESPIE 


husband, the plumber, had died. The room was situate 
near the end of the Back Street, and cost six pound a year 
in rent. Janet Morgan, a pawn in the game, moved to 
the Quay, and thence, having sold her husband’s tools 
and remnants of tin and lead, opened a little toy shop. 


CHAPTER XVII 


Gillespie Strang’s wife had a rage for jewels, and in 
the first days of their married life at Muirhead Farm 
loaded herself with trinkets, many of them cumbersome 
and old-fashioned, and, dressed in the height of fashion, 
kept the parlour, where, big with child as she was, she 
entertained her friends and visitors from the town and 
neighbouring farms. Fond of gossip, and full of cheap 
pride and vanity, she queened it, conceiving she had made 
a happy match. Gillespie gave her a sour, frowning look 
for a week. In the next she was rudely made acquainted 
with his harsh remedies, and trailed about the house 
white-faced and horrified. Her trinkets were locked away. 
When she asked for them he said that such baubles had 
no room in a farmhouse. From the hour in which she 
learned he had seized her jewels and personal ornaments 
she hated him. She considered herself disgraced by him. 
She hoped God would punish him for preying upon her. 
As for Gillespie, he told her to find more profitable occupa- 
tion in the byre. With her eyes fixed upon her person, 
she said she was unfit for such work. Gillespie, ignorant 
of the danger, spoke with contempt ; but, realising it at 
length, thought it prudent to hire a female servant till the 
days of his wife were accomplished. He restricted her to 
the absolute necessaries of life, so that, with such a frugal 
economy, she was ashamed to call in her friends. He 
denied the cravings common to women in her state, 
alleging them as artifice to compass her social ends. She 
became isolated, starved in soul ; and, brooding upon her 

119 


120 


GILLESPIE 


indigence, went to Lonend, asking, with tears, to be taken 
home. Hitherto Lonend had wavered and was irresolute 
with Gillespie, feeling his own guilt in the matter of Muir- 
head Farm ; but now his mind was pierced to the quick. 
He saw his daughter’s shame and degradation exposed to 
the common eye. Privately he gave her money and went, 
whip in hand, to Gillespie, and taunted him with cruelty. 
Gillespie would not be provoked to a quarrel. He turned 
up to Lonend a jolly, rubicund face wet with sweat from 
smearing the sheep with a mixture of tar and fat, and 
prevaricated, trumping up the colourable pretext that the 
time was not convenient for luxury. He had a heavy 
leeway to make up in his share of the price of the farm. 
His policy was to screen his avarice behind an ebbed 
bank-account. Lonend, aware of his malignant heart, 
itched to lift the whip he held upon him, but saw that that 
would only abandon his daughter to perhaps greater 
horrors. He looked, however, he said in an aggravated 
tone, to more lavish treatment of his daughter. Gillespie 
answered that by and by he would make a lady of her, 
when he had got rid of his more pressing burdens ; and, 
with a smiling face, invited Lonend into the house to 
consider the advisability of having some repairs done to 
the kitchen windows. The smile maddened Lonend. 
He felt himself a dupe and baffled, and that Gillespie had 
eluded him by an eel-like flexibility. From sullen silence 
he flashed to an outburst of rage, and striking his leg with 
his whip, cried : 

“ You big braxy beast, ye’ll sweep your doorstep clean 
before I’ll cross it again.” 

This was the beginning of open rupture, and Lonend 
retired, full of resentment. 

Two months afterward a son was born. Gillespie’s 
mother in the “ Ghost ” pleaded for it, on the plea that 
she was lonely. It was in reality the old fear which urged 


GILLESPIE 


121 


the request. Gillespie was nothing loth. He disliked the 
child, for he fancied he had been lured into begetting it ; 
while to have it reared in the “ Ghost ” would save expense. 
Morag wept her eyes out, but Gillespie, inflexible, ferried 
the child across the harbour. At this juncture Lonend 
brought down the gun from the steel-racks over the fire- 
place, cleaned and oiled it; but Morag dissuaded him 
from violence, saying that she had the promise from 
Gillespie of another child, that would be her own. She 
told this in a state of mind bordering on distraction. It 
was a lie ; and was her dream of what she might be able 
to coax from her husband. Within the year she achieved 
her purpose. On a morning that Gillespie, yawning and 
stretching himself, was about to rise, his wife said : 

“ Are you goin’ to get up ? ” 

Gillespie yawned again and looked abroad at his clothes. 

“It’s time,” answered Gillespie; “ Sanny ’ill be 
stirrin’.” He would allow no servant to be beforehand 
with him. His wife sighed. 

“ Am I no’ your wife any longer, Gillespie ? ” 

There was fondness in the tone. She could not under- 
stand that this buirdly man was slipping from her grasp. 
Her questing hands were held out eagerly for the gifts of 
youth and passion. She was a creature made for love, 
with a heart within her breast as warm and tender as a 
Madonna’s. As long, previous to her marriage, as the gifts 
of love were withheld or paid out niggardly, but with the 
promise always to be fulfilled, her face was beautiful, like 
a dark flower, with the light of dreams; and as long as 
her heart kindled thus in her eyes, her radiant face could 
attract even Gillespie. He had always found her beautiful 
at Lonend. But once the debt of matrimony was paid 
coldly enough, and the treasury, she then discovered, 
empty, the light perished in her eyes, and, with the 
vanishing of the look of youth, the last vestige of power 


122 


GILLESPIE 


over her husband was gone for ever. Greed grew in his 
soul with swift, cancerous growth. He emptied his heart 
to make room for his one dominant passion. With 
feminine tenacity she clung on to hope : “ Am I not your 
wife ? ” Her eyes searched his louring face with timidity. 

“ Bonny wife wi’ your fal-de-lals.” He had restored 
her jewels when she had pleaded for them on child-bed— 
her mother’s rings, gold chain, and cameo brooch. 

A trembling seized her body. She shivered as with 
cold, and became afraid. Her eyes blinked ; a clear drop 
oozed out of the corner of the left eye, and trembled on 
the lid. She held up her head to prevent it falling. The 
sight of tears made him malicious. Her nostrils con- 
tracted and expanded like the fluttering wings of a 
wounded bird. 

“An’ what will I do now? ” — she was interrogating 
Fate — “ I’m not fit to be a widow woman.” 

“ Weeda wumman ! wha’s gaun to mak’ ye a weeda 
wumman? ” 

“ I can’t do without you, Gillespie,” she answered 
simply, like a child. There was a large helpless air about 
her which put him into a dull rage. Why could she not 
get up and go to the byre ? She cast herself, her thriftless- 
ness, her unprofitable fancies upon him, wasting the 
morning. The air whistled in his nostrils as he heard her 
mournful plaint. What to do, forsooth. Get up and 
kirn the milk an’ nae mair words. 

“ Don’t be angry with me, Gillespie ; I can’t bear you 
to be angry.” 

The swift access of anger, so unnatural to him, died away. 
He threw the blankets aside and stepped on to the floor. 

“ No ! of coorse, no ! I’m just to liesten to yeer 
whimsies an’ no’ open my mooth. P’raps ye’ll no’ be 
pleased till I gie ye the mill alang wi’ the meal.” The 
housekeeping expenses, a thing new to him, were a 


GILLESPIE 123 

constant source of annoyance. He never missed a chance 
of pushing home this grievance. 

“ I don’t ask for anything. I only want yourself.” 
The naive innocence of this remark appeared to strangle 
Gillespie. She was back to her fancies. He could not 
range himself alongside this desire, for he was beginning 
to regard her now as cumbering his house. She was slow 
of her hands, laggard in business, unpunctual, stupid in 
house-work. Once already he had told her that her 
father’s praise of her skill was part of the game to lure 
him to Muir head. 

“ Ye hae as muckle o’ me as ever ye’ll hae ” ; his grim 
sourness was unpleasant to see. 

“ No ! no ! my husband ; surely you’re not done with 
me like that.” She put out her hand timidly, the hunger 
of affection and the desire of maternity flaring up in her 
eyes and quickening her haggard face. He seemed to be 
standing up to the neck in cold water that was rapidly 
freezing about him. His one desire was to be rid of her 
importunity, and get out to the yard. He pulled up the 
window-blind, and the soft light of dawn flooded the room. 
He stooped, searching for his socks, and muttered : 

“ What mair do ye want o’ me ? ” 

“ Am I so old then ? ” Her voice was humble, plead- 
ing ; sorrow was darkening her eyes. 

“ What mair ? what mair ? ” he said testily. 

She arose in the bed with ardent face. 

“ Gillespie, dear, am I not your wife ? Am I so old ? 
Oh, don’t be so cruel ! It’s long, long since your arms 
were round me. Do you not love me any more ? ” The 
torment of a heart long brooding upon neglect burned in 
her appeal. She sat straight up in bed. “ I lie wakened 
at your side every night hoping ye’ll take me in your 
arms, an’ every night I greet myself to sleep.” A single 
deep sob burst from her. The clock rang the hour of five. 


124 


GILLESPIE 


At the end of the fifth chime a profound silence filled the 
room. The dawn had gathered the sob to itself; and 
Fate was listening with bated breath. Worlds for them 
were in the making. The ancient doom upon the house 
was spinning its thread in the silence. 

An ironic smile passed over the features of the man. 
The only way to get to his more important affairs was to 
yield to her. He put on his waistcoat as he walked to the 
window. 

“ A fine lush morn,” he said, looking out ; then turned. 
“ What’s your wull wi’ me, mistress ? ” 

She crept out of bed to his side like an invited dog, her 
eyes dewy with hope, and deep with the cherished thought 
that had woven the long nights into dreams. A light not 
of the dawn glorified her face. She attempted to speak, 
and sobbed. 

“ Dinna waste my time, mistress ” ; he pressed his 
thumb beneath her chin. A wave of colour passed up- 
wards, surging over her forehead. 

“ I’m wantin’ another baby.” 

She looked terrified after she had uttered the words. 
He did not observe her confusion. 

“ Lhia ! ” he muttered, and stared heavily at the 
grate, like a man in a dream. A hand was plucking at 
his sleeve ; a voice calling hollow out of a shadowy world. 

“ Dhia ! hae ye no’ a bairn already ? ” 

She began to sob. Her fragile shoulders heaved and 
shook with suppressed convulsions. 

Iain s no’ my baby — he’s — he’s — his granny’s boy.” 

Gillespie was amazed, and could find nothing to say. 

“ Lo — ye — no’ love me — any more ? ” The words 
were punctuated with sobs. “ You haven’t— kissed me 
—since Iain was born.” She had treasured up the long 
reckoning of bitter time and neglect. 

“ Kissed ye; I never thocht o’t.” 


GILLESPIE 


125 


“ No — no — ye think of — of everything — but me.” 

A frown settled on his face. 

“ Ay ! if I dinna think o’ a’ thing wha’s tae ; early an’ 
late to keep the meal in the barrel.” His frown deepened. 

She lifted a wet face to him. 

“ Oh ! Gillespie, Gillespie, don’t be angry ; I’m only 
askin’ for a wee bit o’ love. I’m — oh ! I’m wantin’ a 
baby. I’ve lain late at night ” — her eyes sought the 
floor — “ listenin’ for your step. I’ve watched you sleepin’ 
and waited for you wakin’ ; ” reproach, condemnation 
were in her voice. She spoke as a martyr who has kept 
long vigil by the vestal flame of love. “ But you slept 
and wakened, and never a word to me but of milking and 
sowing.” Her eyes quickly sought his face. “Many’s 
the night when you were sleepin’ I drew your hand over 
on my breasts — my breasts burnin’ for a wee baby girl.” 
Her eyes suddenly shone on him. “ You’ll no’ deny me, 
my man ; a baby girl. I know her hair and her eyes. I 
see them every night as I fall asleep. I feel her mouth 
on my breasts.” Her thin face was transfigured. “ It’s 
all I ask. Surely I’m no’ an auld cloot yet.” 

She stood before him, her hair on her nightdress, her 
half-exposed breasts rising and falling in quick pants. 
Gillespie was stupefied. Were there human beings in this 
world of work and money-making who could have a 
passion for aught else ? Such madness for a child. 

“ Dhia ! ” he said, “ ye’re like one that’s drunk.” 

“I’m drunk and sick for a baby girl,” she wailed; 
“ will I go on my knees to you ? ” 

Sandy, the ploughman, was whistling to the lush dawn. 
The sound sharply aroused Gillespie to the world as from 
a dream. 

“ Hoots ! ” he cried, swinging his jacket across his 
shoulder, and shoving in his arms with a jerk, “ is that a 
ye want ? ” 


126 


GILLESPIE 


“ It’s all my hunger and my thirst,” she answered. 

“ Then I’ll speak to Dr. Maclean aboot it.” His 
guttural laugh was acquiescence. 

“ Tell me ! tell me ! ” She looked up eagerly. 

“ It’s a bargain, mistress. Sandy’s wastin’ his time, 
whistlin’ to the craws.” His tone was impatient. 

“ Give me a kiss before you go.” She snatched at his 
sleeve like a slave. He made a wry face and laid his 
mouth over her temple. 

“ Ye’ll no’ bide late the night? ” she whispered. 

There was silence for a moment. The echo of Sandy’s 
footsteps died away in the direction of the stable. Fate 
bent her ear. 

“ I’ll no’ be very thrang the nicht, mistress.” 

Passionless Fate had heard. Suddenly a cock crowed 
loudly. 

Before Gillespie left the farm a second son, Eoghan, 
was born. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Gradually the farm came to be divided between 
Lonend and Gillespie by the burn which ran east and west, 
a stone’s cast from the house. According to agreement 
Lonend sold the wool and the lambs, and at Christmas 
some score of Highland cattle for English consumption, 
to a dealer whom he knew at Bannerie ; and Gillespie the 
rabbits, hares, game, and trout in Glasgow; and milk 
and butter in the village. At the end of the year they 
examined their financial position in the office of Mr. 
McAskill, who, for the time, was banished to Brodie’s. 
They shook hands when they met, their palms rasping. 

44 Ye’re lookin’ weel on’t, Lonen’,” Gillespie said 
cheerily. 

44 Nae thanks to you if I am,” snapped Lonend. 

4 4 Hoots ! dinna be hasty to blame a man that never 
blamed ye for aucht.” In no time they were bickering. 
Gillespie suspected Lonend’s handling of the market, 
though all receipts were duly produced. 

44 There’s naethin’ to hinder this fella in Bannerie, 
whaever he is, frae gein’ ye a false recate for a conseedera- 
tion.” This suspicion had been put into Gillespie’s mind 
by the Fox ; and Gillespie had enough hardihood to make 
an accusation when the matter touched his pocket. He 
was wont to say that men learn quicker in the affairs of 
their purse than in any other. The random shot went 
home. He saw hesitancy and read confusion in the face 
of Lonend, who began to bluster and rapped the table 
with his knuckles. 


127 


128 


GILLESPIE 


“ Ye’ll no’ come stappin’ ower me the wy ye did ower 
Galbraith. Hae ye the richt coont o’ a’ the gallons o’ 
milk an’ a’ the butter ye kirned an’ a’ the rabbits ye 
trapped ? ” 

Gillespie shoved his papers across the table. “ There’s 
the frozen truth,” he said, with a sneer. 

“ Ye can thaw it oot afore I’ll tak’ it.” 

“ Tak’ it or leave it.” Gillespie’s tone was desultory 
with self-righteousness, flicking aside any suspicion of 
underhand work. 

“ I’ll no’ be at my damn fash.” 

Gillespie rose to his feet and gathered up his papers. 

“ Very weel ! I’ll send ye the hauf o’ thae profits ” — 
he tapped his papers with his forefinger, and rolled up 
the sheaf — “ an’ ye’ll send me my hauf o’ the wheck o’ 
that ” — with the sheaf he indicated Lonend’s straggling 
papers — “ inside o’ three days. Aifter that I’ll chairge ye 
interest.” 

“ Who are ye to order me like that ? Ye damn sow, I 
took ye frae a fishin’-boat.” Lonend’s face was purple 
with rage; the hairs of his stubbly moustache bristled. 
“ It’s an ill day I ever had ony thing to do wi’ the likes o’ 
you. Ye’re black to the bane, I tell ye tae your face. 
Ye’d rob the Apostle Peter off the cross.” 

Gillespie put his hand round his ear and screwed up his 
features in a grimace. 

“ Ye’re on my deif ear, Lonen’.” 

“ Deif ! deif ! ” — raged throttled Lonend — “ Goad 
broke the mould He made ye in for fear He micht mak 
another o’ your breed.” He took a stride forward as he 
spoke. “Ye herrit Galbraith’s nest ; an’ ye’d herry mine, 
wad ye ? It’s no’ a wife ye’ve made o’ my lassie, but a 
slave, a damn slave. Ye’d herry mine, wad ye, ye mil- 
dewed nyaf ? ” Lonend clenched his hands. “ Ye ” 

“ Ye winna strick me, Lonen’.” Gillespie backed away 


GILLESPIE 


129 


with upraised hands. “Ye daurna; that wad be the 
jyle for ye, man ; it’s no’ the time o’ year for the jyle wi’ 
the neeps to sow.” 

“ Ay ! by Goad ! in twa shakes o’ a lamb’s tail. I’ll 
gie ye a gutsfull that’ll put neeps oot o’ your heid for the 
next fortnicht.” And Lonend, with a snarl, sprang at 
him and swung an iron fist full on Gillespie’s mouth. 

“ That’s the wy Hector Logan pays his lawin’.” 

In the silence that followed they heard the drip, drip 
of blood on the floor from Gillespie’s mouth. Gillespie 
looked down at the bright spots on the floor, then up at 
the panting Lonend placidly, unwinkingly. His broad 
form was trembling ; a slow, maddening smile crept over 
his face. 

“ Ye jeely-fish,” Lonend yelped; “ say ’t an’ be done 
wi’t. I see the dirt in your eye.” 

“ That’s the wy o’ Hector Logan.” Gillespie drew 
the back of his hand across his mouth and brought it 
away smeared. “ It’s a wy ye’ll hae to pey me for yet.” 
He stooped and picked up his scattered papers. 

Rage was dying quickly in Lonend. His breathing 
became more regular. “Wait till ye pleugh the half o’ 
what I harrowed afore ye try to come ower me wi’ your 
tricks.” 

“ Ay ! man, I’ll wait.” Gillespie turned the handle of 
the door. The still sunshine streamed into the dingy 
room, lighting up the dust on the table and its books. 
Gillespie spat blood. “ Ye’ve knocked the teeth doon my 
throat,” he said ; “ I’ll pull wan or twa o’ yours afore I’m 
done wi’ ye,” and he passed out into the peaceful light. 

“ Gang an’ sell your seeck hens an’ coont their feathers.” 
Lonend’s taunt followed him down the brae. 

Gillespie, with mouth tightly shut, walked home, 
pondering upon his agreement with Lonend concerning 
the farm. He decided he would sow no neeps. He jeered 

K 


130 


GILLESPIE 


at his wife, whom he found in bed. “ Ye were he’rtier 
wance doon the burn-side.” 

She scrambled from the bed, all awry in her clothing, 
tousled in her hair, and staggering slightly on the floor. 
He narrowed eyes of menace upon her, regarding her 
condition a moment in silence. 

“Like faither, like dochter,” he muttered; ‘ an 
what’s the meanin’ o’ a’ this ? ” he said, with low in- 
cisiveness. 

“ I’m not well to-day, Gillespie.” 

“ No, no’ very weel ” — he took a stride about the 
room — “ a fine turn I’ve done to mairry you, wi’ your 
trinkets an’ your bangles an’ your piano. I’ve come an’ 
gone, slavin’ nicht an’ morn for ye to squander my hard- 
gotten siller. Ye’d think I was a millionaire.” 

“ I’m no’ to blame, Gillespie,” she answered wearily; 
“Dr. Maclean ordered me to take spirits when Iain was 
born.” 

“ Tak’ your fill ; ou ay ! tak’ your fill for a’ I care ; 
but let Dr. Maclean pey for ’t.” 

She lifted a stunned face to him. There was something 
of the perplexity of a chidden child in her look. 

“ I don’t want my fill.” 

Gillespie made no answer. He often met his wife’s 
conversation with contemptuous silence. 

“ You’ve never a kind word for me at all now, Gillespie,” 
she said timidly. 

“ I’ve nae mair words for ye, guid or bad. Haud your 
ain wy, wumman, but no’ wi’ my siller,” and he walked 
out of the room. She felt she was despised. On the next 
day she learned that he would reveal the domestic inti- 
macies ruthlessly to the world, for when she asked him 
for money for household necessities, he refused, and said 
that in future himself would pay all these things. 

Stung to the quick, she crossed over to Lonend with a 


GILLESPIE 


131 


shawl about her head — a shawl, the signal of distress flown 
by a woman. Lonend, sore over yesterday’s business, 
gave her little comfort. 

“ Naethin’ like feedin’ his ain gulls wi’ his ain sea- 
guts,” he said irascibly. She stayed there over the night, 
expecting her husband to come for her. He never came. 
In the morning she crept back, broken in spirit, and 
watching furtively that no one would see her walking the 
Via Dolorosa. 

In the meanwhile Lonend had other matter for thought. 
Gillespie neither ploughed the Laigh Park nor sowed 
neeps ; and neeps were important for wintering the cattle. 
His ploughman informed him that Gillespie had ‘ ‘ putten 
on sheep as muckle’s the land wad cairry, frae the Laigh 
Park at the slack o’ the wud tae the Bull Park ” — exactly 
one half of the farm as marked by the march of the burn. 
This was beyond endurance. Against the grain Lonend 
was forced to visit Muirhead Farm. Gillespie and Sandy 
the Fox were exchanging gossip and pleasantries at the 
door of a little outhouse, containing a boiler and heating 
apparatus for making mash for the cattle. The Fox had 
informed his master that Mrs. Galbraith was living in the 
plumber’s house in the Back Street. The conversation 
turned on the piracy of the Back Street denizens. The 
Fox blamed Galbraith. Do what he could the Fox was 
unable to prevent these female plunderers from trespassing 
in the Laigh Park when they went to the Planting for 
sticks. 

“ There’s wan o’ the hungry seed that’ll bother us no 
more. I’m telt they found Betty Heck standin’ against 
the dike-side at the Holly Bush stone-deid, wi’ a bundle 
o’ sticks across her shouthers.” 

“ A savin’ wumman,” answered Gillespie jocularly; 
“ makin’ hersel’ her ain heidstane.” 

The Fox was tee-heeing shrilly in Gillespie’s rubicund 


132 


GILLESPIE 


face when Lonend tramped across the yard. He had a 
short whip in his hand, with which he slapped his trouser- 
leg. 

“ A braw day, Lonen’,” cried Gillespie suavely. 

Lonend planted his feet apart, squarely facing Gillespie. 

“ What’s this you’re up tae ? ” he demanded surlily. 

“ Ye’ll p’raps be a wee mair expleecit.” 

“ What dae ye mean by puttin’ sheep on the low 
grun’ ? ” 

The Fox moved away with reluctant step. Gillespie 
stayed him with a gesture. 

“ Ye’d better bide, Sanny,” Gillespie whistled through 
his nose ; “ I’ll maybe need a witness in case o’ assault.” 

The Fox, with bleared, ferrety eyes shining evilly upon 
Lonend, slouched against the wall of the outhouse and 
picked in his red, tangled beard. 

“ Ye’ll need mair nor this scraggy witness ” — Lonend 
jerked the butt of his whip in contempt towards the Fox — 
“ afore I’m done wi’ ye.” 

“ I winna gang sae fast aboot wutnesses, Lonen’ ; I’m 
jaloosin’ I’m no’ gettin’ market-price frae your freend up 
by at Bannerie.” 

Gillespie, who had already seen this random shot go 
home, welcomed the chance of pushing it now in the 
presence of the Fox, who had suggested it. “I ken a’ 
aboot the recates ye hae frae him — a bonny hand o’ 
write, stampit an’ a’. Imphm. P’raps noo you an’ him 
mak’ your ain price on paper. Hoo much noo is he takin’ 
for the job, Lonen’ ? ” 

Lonend’ s face was white. 

“ What job ? ” he growled. 

“ Ou ! I’m nane such a scone o’ yesterday’s bakin’. 
Did ye never hear o’ the trick o’ a man peyin’ ye twenty- 
four shullin’s for a sheep, an’ gein’ ye a bit o’ recate made 
oot for auchteen or twenty ? ” 


GILLESPIE 


133 


Men have ability to sin; not every man has enough 
to conceal guilt. This is because man is an ethical 
animal. Guilt was plain on Lonend’ s face. He was 
learning that conscience is the handcuff which binds us 
to God. 

“ Gang an’ sell your ain stuff,” he said, frowning at 
Gillespie and his conscience. 

“ Just so, Lonen’ ; that’s the wy I’m puttin’ sheep 
on the low grun’. It’s no’ hauf the profits ony mair; 
it’s hauf the ferm atween us to mak’ a kirk or a mill 
o’t.” 

“ Ye’ve taen your time to tell ’t.” Lonend was 
exasperated. 

“ Ay,” replied Gillespie drily; “ dinna show hauf-done 
work to a waen or a fool — ye ken the sayin’ ? ” 

“ Who’s a fool ? ” Lonend eagerly turned the conversa- 
tion to recrimination. 

“ I’m dootin’ it’s me ye were takin’ for a fool.” 

“ I’ll hae the law o’ ye for puttin’ on sheep on the low 
grun’ withoot my consent.” 

“ Ca’ canny ! ” said Gillespie, smiling. “You an’ me 
’greed to hae wan hauf o’ the ferm ; ye put your hand to 
paper on’t. I’m mindin’ that ye wanted the heather for 
the Hielan’ beasts ” — he shot a sudden keen glance at 
Lonend — “ I’m takin’ the Laigh Parks, an’ I’ll sell the 
lambs an’ wool mysel’. Ye can dale wi’ your freen’ at 
Bannerie by yersel’, gif ye like.” 

Lonend, frustrated, inwardly cursed the day he had 
signed the bond. 

“ It’s no’ set doon in the paper that the farm’s to gang 
half an’ half this wy.” 

“ Wi’ a wee bittie ower to your freen’ up by,” sneered 
Gillespie. 

Lonend took a sudden step forward, his hand wrestling 
with his whip, his mouth twitching. 


134 


GILLESPIE 


“ No ; ye’ll no’ knock ony mair teeth doon my throat. 
It’s no’ neifs noo ; it’s the paper ye put your hand 
tae.” 

“Ye damn thief,” roared Lonend, flaming out in rage ; 

“ ye’ll land on your backside yet wi’ your wee bits o’ 
paper, an’ your wee per cents. Ye Jew frae Jericho ! 
Mrs. Galbraith s weirs she’ll hae the hale toon aboot your 
ears.” 

“Does Mrs. Galbraith ken wha began the ploy?” 
sneered Gillespie ; “ it’s no’ for you to be cairryin’ 

sculduddery o’ weemin’s clatter.” 

“ Sculduddery ! ” shouted Lonend; “ every wumman’s 
sculduddery wi’ you. Morag haesna the life o’ a dog wi’ 
you, you hound. By Goad, she’ll come hame wi’ me this 
very day.” 

Lonend’s one affection was for his daughter. The 
treatment she received rankled more than his own defeat 
at Gillespie’s hands. He imagined that this threat would 
daunt Gillespie. 

“ Tak’ her an’ welcome. See an’ hae the jar ready. 
I’ll be weel rid o’ her.” 

Gillespie’s measured answer fell upon Lonend like icy 
water. He quailed inwardly, seeing that Gillespie was in 
earnest. He groped for the significance of the word 
“jar,” and feared to ask its import. He was baffled, 
forced to stay his hands, and wage battle with impossible 
argument. Gradually he recognised himself in the 
presence of an adversary the like of whom he had never 
met — a master of craft and words. He had no stomach 
to suffer the shame of seeing his daughter back at Lonend. 
He retreated under cover of threats. 

“ Tak’ guid care, the twa o’ ye, to stick to the Laigh 
grun’. Dinna let me catch ye stepping north the burn 
or I’ll gie Dr. Maclean a month’s job on ye.” 

“Hoots! what’s your hurry, Lonen’ ? ” said Gillespie 


GILLESPIE 135 

suavely ; “ step in an’ hae a cup o’ tea — if Morag’s no’ at 
the Lonen’.” 

“ Keep your dirty whustle an’ your sang. I’ll step in 
the day o’ your funeral.” The whip handle was snapped 
in two and flung on the manure heap as Lonend disap- 
peared round the corner of the byre. 

Gillespie strolled to the manure heap, picked up the 
remnants of the whip, and handed them to the Fox. 

“ It’ll stand splicin’,” he said. As the Fox was ex- 
amining the trophy Gillespie turned on him a meditative 
eye. “ I’m dootin’, Sanny, I’ll no’ be keepin’ the Laigh 
Park very lang.” 

Gillespie had profited by Lonend’s tale of how, by his 
astute manoeuvre, he had “ done ” the Laird in the matter 
of the black-faced sheep. Gillespie would better the 
instruction. The Fox waited, eye upon the whip. 

“ Lonen’ ’ill be gey an’ gled to see me off the ferm. 
We’ll leave him a bit praisint o’ the black-faced sheep 
afore we’ll gang. Ye ken, I never thocht muckle o’ the 
termin’. But, I’m thinkin’, maybe the shore end wad 
cairry another fifty or mair.” 

The Fox teased his meagre beard in glee. 

“ Man,” he purred, “ but Lonen’ ’ill dance ” — he 
shuffled with his feet — “ dance as if the fires o’ hell were 
singein’ the soles o’ his feet.” 

Gillespie smiled and whistled in his nostrils. “ It’ll 
serve him right for his dirty tricks in puttin’ puir Marget 
oot o’ hoose an’ hame.” Gillespie pondered a moment. 
“ Dae ye ken, Sanny, I never played my cairds weel aifter 
a’.” 

The Fox waited, toying with the whip handle. 

“ It’s Marget,” said Gillespie softly, “ that I ought to 
hae mairrit.” 

“ Ay,” replied the Fox ; “ a braw wice-lik’ wumman.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


These matters created some talk in both the Butler’s 
shop and in the Back Street. The talk in the shop was 
of no great importance, but it brings us into the presence 
of that forcible free fellow, the darling of the town, 
Lonend’s father, Chrystal Logan, a large, effectual man, 
carrying a pliable torpedo beard, well-trimmed from a 
thick, red face. Nothing stiff there or about him. He 
carried a breeze with him and walked with a surge, as if 
the wind of prosperity always blew in his wake. There 
are men of that kidney always taking the world in tow. 
He would throw up his work to attend any auction sale 
within a radius of twelve miles, and come home suffused 
with liquor and burdened with impedimenta for which, 
at the instance of his wife, he anxiously sought pur- 
chasers on a sober to-morrow. But he had had his day. 
Lycurgus will always have a noble feast upon his table. 

He told jocular, rather doubtful, stories to married 
women, and carried these off with a roaring laugh. A 
joyous man, who had his photograph taken every New 
Year day, when he made a pilgrimage to Rothesay. The 
walls of his shop and house were covered with these repre- 
sentations, faithfully dated. To the favoured he would 
show this gallery, going around with an inch-tape in his 
hand. “ Here I had an inch and a half of whisker ; and 
here three inches,” and would heavily sigh, for the hirsute 
growth marked the scurrying feet of Time. A toward 
man, the friend of children, he carried the sun in his 

136 


GILLESPIE 


137 


pocket. In his youth he had been in gaol for poaching, 
and after took service with the Laird. It was the only 
way of curing the itch for a gun. 

He wore a famous waistcoat of sealskin, with pearl 
buttons up to the torpedo beard, which was dark; on 
occasion greyish- white. This was the lovable vanity of 
the man. When he had been drunk the world, on the 
next day, discerned a change of colour in the beard, like 
wakening to streets whitened with a snowfall through the 
night. In Brodie’s he always drank “ whisky hot,” and 
wore a blue ribbon under the left lapel of his coat — a trick 
learned when in the service of the Laird. At need he 
turned up the lapel and flew the blue flag. Comrades in 
Brodie’s made a point of asking him the secret of his youth 
— in allusion to his chameleon beard. “Be temperate,” 
he would cry, with a wide-spread gesture of the hands, 
“ like me ” ; the hands would swoop to the lapel ; “ always 
at the fore — the Blue Peter ” ; and he never failed to 
wink. As for the sealskin waistcoat, it was travelled. 
The pearl buttons came from Ceylon ; the sealskin from 
Seattle, where one of his friends had gone. “ It’s in 
Central America; or, if you want to know more par- 
teecularly, near Washington.” In point of fact it had 
been one of the Laird’s friends who had gone there, while 
the waistcoat had been a present from the old Laird, and 
the seal which delivered up the pelt had been caught 
napping by his salmon fisherman on the rocks below the 
castle. 

Lonend found his father in specs and shirt-sleeves, 
bending over a piece of leather with a squat sharp-edged 
tool in his hand. Lonend, at the counter, brought down 
his fist in a rage. 

“ Him ! the Irish scum. His folk got banished frae 
Ireland for lifting a rope wi’ a filly at the end o’t, and 
cam’ hidin’ behind the Heids o’ Ayr. And when the 


138 


GILLESPIE 


Kyle men made it too hot for them they sneaked in here. 
An’ noo he’s stolen Galbraith’s ferm, the black Irish 
thief.” 

When Lonend had ended his philippic his father delved 
the sharp edge of the squat knife into the leather, snipped 
off a paring, swept it to the floor, and lifted a preoccupied 
eye upon his son. 

“ Be calm, Hector, be calm. At all costs be a gentle- 
man. The old Laird never got angry. It does not 
become us to get angry over a lobster-catcher, a wulk- 
gatherer.” The Butler screwed up his resin-blackened 
fingers and made a suggestive plucking gesture. Here 
was the eternal distinction between farmer and fisherman. 
Justice would perhaps allow a barrel of herring to be 
equivalent to a bag of potatoes, but salt water is unstable, 
and commands no rent, while land is a hoary possession. 

“We ” — the Butler slapped the strip of leather on 
the counter, and his eyes gleamed — “ we are the land that 
barred out the Romans ; the land that has pride without 
insolence; courage without audacity; blood with con- 
descension. Think of the Douglases and Wallace. Do 
not condescend upon this sea-villain who would be a 
farmer. Console yourself with cordials, and let him know 
his master when he comes to me for harness.” 

“ Harness ! ” His father’s pigeons on the roof scut- 
tered away at Lonend’s derisive laughter. “ He’ll gie 
ye an order for harness when the rope in the middens is 
done.” 

“ Say no more, Hector, say no more ; remember I sell 
whips ; and there will always, I hope, be a length of tow 
left. The crab always crawls back to the sea. You shall 
have the farm yet.” 

The Butler also was among the prophets. Was it 
fatality, chance, or coincidence that caused both the Butler 
and Gillespie within the same hour to utter almost the 


GILLESPIE 


139 


same words ? The crab would go back to the sea, but 
set its claws in Lonend as it scuttled. 

Another scrap of conversation is more illuminating, for 
it gave Mrs. Galbraith her line of action. It came to be 
noticed in the Back Street that, while she never encour- 
aged gossip, she always had an ear for particulars from 
Muirhead. So we find the waspish, rosy face of Mary 
Bunch at her door. She is on an errand of borrowing a 
frying-pan, and cannot forbear observing that Morag 
Logan has been living with her father for more than a 
week. 

“ The Logans aye had trouble with their faimly. 
Chrystal was in jyle for poaching, and wan o’ them died 
in the horrors o’ drink. If Morag escapes it’ll be gey and 
droll.” 

Mrs. Galbraith encouraged her with a nod. “ Do you 
think so ? ” and lifted her lustrous dark eyes a moment 
upon the pinched face of the garrulous narrator. 

“ Ay, div I ! She was left five hunner pounds in dry 
money frae an uncle in Isla’. And he was a bad, bad man. 
He got his money makin’ whusky an’ sellin’t to the fisher- 
men withoot a leeshins. His wife wad go an’ cairry up 
the stoups o’ salt watter to mek the whusky. She was 
never in her bed, that wumman, makin’ whusky. An’ 
that’s the money Gillespie got wi’ his wife. No good ’ill 
come o’t. It’ll gang wi’ the whusky yet.” The small 
head jerked violently ; she lowered her voice to a whisper, 
and stole a look over her shoulder at the door. “ They’re 
sayin’ Morag’s tastin’.” Mrs. Galbraith lifted calm, 
unwavering eyes to Mary Bunch’s face, and her heart 
beat faster. Had the voice of Fate entered into this mean 
channel ? “ Since Eoghan was born she’s aye sook, 

sookin’. It’ll a’ gang wi’ the whusky yet. You wait an’ 
see.” She compressed her lips into a thin, prophetic line. 
“ See the wy Morag Shaw went an’ Morag at Donal’ 


140 


GILLESPIE 


Graham. Dae ye ken ? It’s my belief a’ the Morags are 
the same.” Her puckered face had a bewildered look as 
if she were puzzled by the thought of a disastrous name. 
“ Let Gillespie reinge an’ scrape an’ milk the coo as he 
likes ; she’s on the whusky ; an’ the ebb-tide ’ill tek away 
more than the flood ’ill bring in.” The biographical tit- 
bit had its own effect on Mrs. Galbraith, who wanted 
leisure for thought. With an imperious uplift of the head, 
well known to the Back Street, she dismissed Mary Bunch. 
“ That will do, Mary,” she said; “ there is the frying-pan 
in the sink cupboard.” 

“ Drat her,” Mary Bunch apostrophised the cats with- 
out on the thatch in the sun, “ that’s her high-an’ -mighty 
wy — ‘ that’ll do.’ ” With spleen Mary Bunch thought, 
not so much of the words of dismissal, as of the imperious 
sweep of the head, which none in the Back Street could 
either withstand or combat. “ That’s a’ the thanks I get 
for my news.” Yet so magnetic a woman was Mrs. 
Galbraith that Mary Bunch would be prepared on the 
morrow to furnish anew a banquet of gossip. She had 
forgotten that she had had some sort of thanks in the loan 
of a frying-pan. 


CHAPTER XX 


We allow the years of wrangling between the partners 
to pass with their infamy, and come to the exodus of 
Gillespie. He had held his half of the farm for three 
years, steadily covering it with sheep, during which time 
Lonend never lost an opportunity of sneering at the 
fisherman farmer — “ wha never saw neeps shawed ” in his 
life. All Brieston knew that they were at variance ; and 
believed that Gillespie was making a muddle of the 
business. Lonend even hinted that it was he who had 
broken away from Gillespie, for he had “ mair to do than 
throw awa’ his siller on the experiments o’ a man wha kens 
mair o’ a lobster creel nor a pleugh stilt.” Lonend made 
capital out of the fact that Gillespie had converted his 
share of the farmlands into sheep pasturage. “ He’s only 
fit for herdin’ kye an’ sellin’ milk wi’ a bell to a wheen 
weemin.” 

Old Mr. Strang was perturbed at these rumours, and 
warning his son of the risks which an amateur ran in 
farming, urged him to return to the sea. 

“ I’m no’ forgettin’ a’thegeither the saut watter,” 
answered Gillespie ; “ but it’s saut enough to keep. I’m 
no’ just makin’ a fortune here ” — he swept his arm around 
the compass of his land — “ but I’m layin’ the foundation 
o’ ane.” 

His father imagined him to be suffering from delusion, 
and urged him to give up the business. “ I hear naethin’ 
else but you an’ your ferm frae the Bairracks to the 
‘ Shipping Box.’ Lonen’s makin’ a mock o’ ye ; he says 

Hi 


142 


GILLESPIE 


he’ll no’ foregaither wi’ ye at the end o’ the lease. Either 
you or him maun hae the hale o’ the term.” 

“ I’m dootin’ he’s findin’ me gey kittly to run in 
harness wi’.” 

4 4 Give it up,” said the old man shortly. He was 
grieved at the common talk of his son’s incompetence. 
His wife was ailing more than usual of late. Her cough 
racked her at night and harried her in the morning. She 
rarely left the house now, and her voice had become husky 
and weak. Maclean had ordered her inland, but, for some 
unaccountable reason, she refused to leave the “ Ghost ” 
unless Gillespie accompanied her. At night, in dreams, 
she mourned over her only-begotten son ; by day pleaded 
for his release from the purgatory of Muir head. “ Can 
you not give him a helping hand, Richard ? we’ve more 
money in the bank than we need.” There was a deposit 
receipt for £835 in the kist. 

Gillespie, listening to this account of his mother’s 
state of health with a face of solicitude, flashed a look of 
cunning at his father. 

“ I dinna see my wy clear to move intae the toon.” 

“ What’s to hinder ye ? your mother an’ me ’ill no’ 
see ye stuck.” 

“ If I’d a wee thing mair capital, I’d mak’ a move. I’m 
gettin’ seeck o’ the fermin’.” He spoke as if a vast, 
dreary world were oppressing him. 

The old man sighed heavily. It was difficult for him, 
in a land of strangers, to withstand their taunts. “I’ve 
a pickle siller in the bank,” he hazarded. 

“ No, no ! ” Gillespie interrupted ; “ yo’fl need a’ ye 
hae.” 

“ Your mother’s gettin’ sore failed,” was the pathetic 
answer ; “ we’ve mair than ’ill cairry us to the grave. If 
five hunner wad gie ye a stairt ye’re welcome tae ’t.” 

“ Are ye sure it’ll no’ leave ye bare ? ” — with beautiful 


GILLESPIE 


143 


filial reluctance. Yet he drained the deposit receipt to 
the amount of £500, callously stripping the slates off the 
roof which sheltered grey hairs. He gave no bond or 
I 0 U, and his father asked for none. Instead he hinted 
that his father should sound Lonend about that farmer’s 
willingness to let his partner go. The old man stayed to 
tea, dandled Eoghan, said he must come to the “ Ghost ” 
to see his granny, and left half a sovereign with Morag for 
the boy. She concealed the money, and said nothing to 
her husband of the gift. 

Old Mr. Strang, with whom Lonend was friendly, asked 
that his son be relieved of his half of the farm-lands. 
“He’s makin’ naething o’t, an’ it’s killin’ the auld woman.” 
Lonend wavered. The guilt of his crime towards Mrs. 
Galbraith was pricking him. This would increase its 
burden. He compromised with his conscience by de- 
termining that he would invite her back to Muirhead. 
Several circumstances induced him to close with Mr. 
Strang’s request. He was weary of brawling with 
Gillespie, who, he admitted to himself, was more than a 
match for him, disarmed as he was in the contest by his 
affection for his daughter. Gillespie he found dark, 
pernicious, impenetrable, without bowels of pity, immov- 
able as granite. Lonend’ s suspicions harboured the 
gloomiest fears. At the expiry of the lease he was per- 
suaded that Gillespie would find means of getting the 
whole farm into his hands. The Laird was no friend of 
his since he had wrested Lonend from the estate. He 
could not brook the loss of Muirhead, being greedy for 
land, especially after his public jibes about the lobster- 
catcher. Morag, who should have made their relations 
tender, alienated them. Lonend suspected that Gillespie 
studiously harassed her to vex him. Removed out of his 
immediate neighbourhood Gillespie might give over this 


144 


GILLESPIE 


guerilla warfare upon his girl. Besides, he hated being 
partner with a man who was pursuing a separate interest. 
Do what he might, Lonend could not take off his guard 
one who was armoured in duplicity, who spoke no word 
of censure, who uttered no asperity. “ A damn black 
frost, that’s what he is,” Lonend said to the Butler. 

“ But who, my son, proposed the plan ? was it not you ? 
Never consort with a rascal. He will make your cheek 
burn at last.” Thus early was Lonend taken in the 
caprice of Fate, which turns our foresight to an ironic jest, 
and cherishes the most unexpected things in obscurity, to 
make of them, in the end, the master of our life. 

It was not without a sense of relief that Lonend saw 
this honourable avenue of escape from a cuttlefish, 
impenetrable behind the ink of his dissembling. He was 
sick of the role of policeman, and the Butler advised him 
on the heels of old Mr. Strang, “ Let the crab go back to 
the sea before his claws become too big.” 

Lonend was secretly pleased with this advice, which 
jumped with his own wish. His greed of land would be 
gratified. He could make good his taunts about the 
lobster-catcher, who, once Lonend had withdrawn to his 
own half of the farm, had been left high and dry on a 
manure heap, and was now forced to retreat in a back- 
wash of incompetence among the herring barrels of the 
Quay. “ Let him keep his ’tattie barrels for saut herrin’,” 
Lonend went the length of saying to Lowrie, the 
banker. 

The factor made no objection to the dissolution of 
partnership, and agreed that Lonend should occupy and 
work Muirhead on the terms of Galbraith’s lease. Lonend, 
however, was ignorant that the factor had been instigated 
to this course of action by Gillespie, who had already paid 
that official a visit, and had agreed, on being released from 
partnership with Lonend, to rent the stores at the Quay, 


GILLESPIE 145 

belonging to the Laird, which had lain empty for several 
years. 

Immediately Gillespie got the factor’s consent he be- 
came extraordinarily active. In the forenoons of those 
days when the wind set to the sea he cunningly burned 
the heather in patches above the shore. The smoke was 
invisible from Lonend. 

“ Whatna bleeze is this ? ” asked the Fox. 

“ It’s a bit fire for Lonen’ to warm his temper at.” 
The moor was scarcely cold when Sandy the Fox drove a 
large flock of black-faced sheep upon it. They felled 
saplings in the Planting in the early morning, and fenced 
every gap on the land, and hoarded every inch of manure 
in the farm-yard. Some year and a half previously 
Gillespie had introduced a strain of good rams among the 
sheep, and in this economical way had vastly improved 
his stock. He worked in silence, ignoring Lonend’s gale 
of jests about his incapacity. The stock was now ac- 
climatised, the death-rate low, and the fences gave the 
stock the appearance of contentedness. 

Gillespie was now prepared to leave, and, choosing 
his time of year early in May, wrote to Lonend informing 
him that, in terms of old Mr. Strang’s conversation, he was 
willing to hand over his share of the farm, and hoped that 
the arrangement could be come at by next month, as he 
was anxious to return to the town when the fishing season 
was entering on its best period. He had no love for 
farming ; was losing money on the venture which he had 
undertaken chiefly on Lonend’s invitation — here Gillespie 
sucked his pen, smirking — Morag would be better off in 
the town, and the like. He swithered over the signature, 
but finally wrote : “ Your affect, son-in-law, Gillespie 
Strang.” 

Lonend, sneering at the title “ son-in-law ” instead of 
scrutinising the letter, swallowed the bait. He curtly 

L 


146 


GILLESPIE 


replied, assenting. By return Gillespie asked for a 
meeting with the Laird s factor to complete the agree- 
ment. At the meeting each man made a show of friendli- 
ness, and it was finally agreed that Lonend should enter 
in full possession of the farm forthwith. As Lonend 
gathered up the reins in his hands — he always came in 
some pomp to the town — the factor, smiling shrewdly, 
hoped that Gillespie would leave no sting behind him. 
This random remark troubled Lonend on his homeward 
journey. He lashed the mare viciously with the whip, 
puzzling over the likelihood of his having fallen into a trap. 
Before he reached home he was persuaded that the 
factor and Gillespie were hand in glove to oust him from 
Muirhead. 

At the end of May Gillespie wrote informing Lonend 
that he would move out in the first days of J une ; in the 
meanwhile he asked Lonend what price he was prepared 
to offer for the stock and farm -yard manure. Lonend, 
holding Gillespie for a simpleton, refused point-blank to 
take over a single head of sheep. He received a letter 
from McAskill, pointing out that he had concluded a 
written agreement to enter into possession of Muirhead 
Farm. The lawyer quoted from the terms of Galbraith’s 
lease : “ The tenant shall be bound to implement the 
following conditions, namely : (First) To reside on the 
said lands during the lease, and always to have a sufficient 
stocking thereon ” — this last was underlined — “ and 
whereas this is a special condition of the lease, it is ex- 
pressly stipulated that if the tenant for the time being 
shall fail to implement this condition, excepting only 
owing to circumstances beyond his control, it shall so be 
in the power of the landlord at once to put an end to the 
lease.” 

McAskill pointed out that the stock belonged to the 
land, and that, in terms of the lease, “ the landlord re- 


GILLESPIE 


147 


served power at any time during the lease to resume 
possession of such portions of the said lands as he may 
think proper.” This also was underlined. McAskill 
hinted that the Laird would deprive him of the whole 
farm. 

Lonend went hot and cold as he read. The words 
swam before his eyes, and he jumped to a false conclusion 
— here was the trick by which the factor and Gillespie 
would deprive him of the farm. By Goad, he would show 
them ! He would buy every hoof on the farm. 

“ (Second) : The tenant shall not sell or dispose of 
any dung made on the said lands, but shall lay the whole 
dung on the farm in each year no less than twenty-five 
tons of good stable or byre manure, per imperial acre, 
and shall exhibit evidence thereof to the satisfaction of 
the landlord’s factor at Whitsunday yearly.” 

Lonend gnashed his teeth. His suspicion was correct. 
In that moment he experienced a deep satisfaction in his 
foresight. Like another, he could have called out on his 
prophetic soul. Thus and thus would Gillespie cheat him 
out of the farm. No, by Goad ! In an impulse of fury he 
wrote a letter to McAskill, saying he would buy every 
sheep on the farm, and daringly made an obscene jest 
about the dung. Either the jest or the substance of the 
blind letter tickled Gillespie. “ We’ve nailed him,” he 
said, and patted McAskill on the shoulder, familiarly 
calling him Nathanael. Arbiters were appointed. The 
farm -yard manure was valued at five shillings per cubic 
yard. Lonend, exultant, imagined he was baulking 
Gillespie in buying the manure. When they came to deal 
for the black-faced stock, the arbiters fought so bitterly 
that an oversman was appointed. He found the stock 
thoroughly acclimatised. Owing to the boundary-fences 
— cut by stealth from the Planting — the homing value of 
the sheep was recognised. 


148 


GILLESPIE 


“ Where can they stray tae ? ” Lonend demanded with 
heat ; “ is’t to Lonen’ or the sea ? ” 

“ Sheep are silly enough to have been drowned before 
now,” the oversman answered drily. He pointed out 
that Gillespie had not neglected heather-burning, which 
had helped to keep down the death-rate. The sheep had 
plainly thrived on their native grazing. The oversman 
was nettled at Lonend’s fiery and scornful interruptions, 
while Gillespie, on the other hand, kept his teeth on 
his tongue and courteously answered the oversman’ s 
queries for information. 

Lonend recalled that he had been selling his cast ewes 
at thirteen shillings to seventeen shillings, whose lambs, 
with the shotts weeded out, had gone for ten shillings. 
The price finally fixed by the oversman, in conjunction 
with the arbiters, seeing it was early June, was £58 per 
clad score for ewes and lambs. There was a big head of 
stock on the farm. 

“ I’ll tak’ yeer cheque within three days for the manure 
an’ sheep-stock,” said Gillespie breezily, in the hearing of 
the oversman, “ or chairge ye interest.” 

Lonend, speechless with mortification and rage, saw 
now that all along Gillespie had been determined to 
relinquish the partnership. 

“ Ye braxy beast,” he spluttered ; “ did ye tak’ to 
burnin’ the heather when dacent fowk were in their bed ? ” 

Of all the circumstances this was the one which galled 
him most, for he had not allowed such knowledge to 
Gillespie. 

“ Ou ! ” answered Gillespie, laughing good-humouredly 
and rubbing his hands ; “ Sanny an’ me was makin’ a 
lowe whiles by the licht o’ the moon when ye were thrang 
in Brodie’s back-room wi’ your bit joke ower the lobster- 
catcher. I wush ye luck o’ the ferm, Lonen’. I’m gey 


GILLESPIE 


149 


an’ weel pleased to gang back to the lobsters. Ye ken I 
haena muckle skill o’ fermin’.” 

Lonend’s dark face was distorted with rage. 

“ Come awa’,” he cried, “ come awa’, ye robber, an’ 
I’ll pey ye the siller. Hector Logan o’ the Lonen’ can 
table penny for penny wi’ the likes o’ you.” 

“ No, no, Lonen’, that’s no’ business. Just pey the 
bit la win’ intae Mr. Lowrie in my name, an’ I’ll be obleeged 
to ye.” 

During the next two days Sandy the Fox and two hired 
men from Brieston dismantled Muirhead house. Once 
more the clocks were stopped, when Galbraith’s furniture 
was put into carts. On the evening of the second day all 
the plenishing had been transported to the stores at the 
Quay. Morag went with the last cart, carrying the child 
at her breast, and sobbing bitterly, with her eyes riveted 
on the track across the brae leading to Lonend. She was 
being cut adrift from her last anchorage. The child gazed 
at her with those eyes of infinite depth which children 
have, full of a dumb unutterable expression. The next 
moment the child was attracted by the brush of the 
horse’s tail, and stretched out its hands towards this new 
allure. The mother was left to sob in peace. Down the 
Barracks brae into the town the cart rumbled, and to 
the observer mother and child seemed part of Gillespie’s 
goods and chattels. The descent of the brae had its 
peculiar significance for both husband and wife. For 
the one it was the descent to Avernus ; for the other, a 
march towards the Alps and Italy. 

It had been a depressing day. The wind, a high east, 
had darkened the town, which lay a huddled mass of 
roofs beneath a sour leaden sky. The far-off roar of the 
sea droned through the gloomy twilight ; and as the cart 


150 


GILLESPIE 


halted at last at the end of its journey, on the eaves of 
the “ Ghost ” the sign-board jangled its rasping curfew, 
ushering in the close of that iron day with its hard 
light and a watery sun which, angry with the wind in 
its eye, scowled luridly in a wild, marly sky presaging 
storm. 

To-morrow Lonend would send a grieve to occupy 
Muirhead Farm. To-night it was once more empty. 
Around its doors, in a rockery of Mrs. Galbraith’s, glim- 
mered the old-world wee white flowers of wood-ruff, 
haunting the dusk with their scent. The trees tossed and 
swayed, moaning beneath the sky, and sere leaves of ivy 
swirled upwards on the roof. A deep quiet reigned 
within the dark dwelling. It was housing silence, glean- 
ing ghostly echoes, garnering retribution. Gillespie had 
carelessly left the kitchen door open. Suddenly it crashed 
to, racketing loudly through the echoing house at a snarl 
of the piratical east wind. 

In the “ Ghost ” Gillespie’s mother was dying of con- 
sumption. For two days she had been unable to speak, 
and had written on sheets of note-paper. Gillespie had 
casually picked one of these up from the kitchen dresser, 
and read the pencilled words : “ The doctor says I will 
not choke.” He turned pale with fear. 

She was choking now. At every gust of the wind, 
when the signboard without groaned and creaked, he felt 
her eyes following him in dumb dread through the room. 
Trembling, he left the kitchen and passed out into the 
night. Beneath the grinding signboard he stood and 
gazed across the bay at the dark loom of Lonend 
and Muirhead. Within Lonend a man sat in the 
empty kitchen at the table, his head between his 
hands, his eyes riveted on a sheet of paper spread out 


GILLESPIE 151 

on the table. For the third time he slowly read the 
writing : 

THIS HOUSE IS DEAD. 

IT HAS BEEN MURDERED. 

IT IS BURIED IN THE GRAVE OF A WOMAN’S 
HEART. 

“ BE NOT DECEIVED ; GOD IS NOT MOCKED : FOR WHATSO- 
EVER A MAN SOWETH, THAT SHALL HE ALSO REAP.” 

“ It’s God’s shirra, God’s shirra,” he moaned. A deep 
groan broke the silence of the lonely room. 

Some one touched Gillespie’s arm. He turned, and 
saw his father silently beckoning to him, and followed him 
into the kitchen. Morag was standing with Eoghan in 
her arms, looking at the bed. His mother was gasping, 
her chin heaving up with every effort. Her lips were 
dabbled with a chalky froth. In the tense silence Gilles- 
pie heard his father whisper, “ She is passing away.” 
He heard a rattle and gurgle in her throat, and saw the 
whites of the eyes roll upwards. There was a gasp and a 
sigh; then infinite silence. His father stepped to the 
bed and leaned his ear down to her mouth. Then he 
straightened himself, turned from the bed, and, looking at 
his son, said, in a low, solemn voice, “ She is gone.” 

Without, the signboard with the bloody dagger croaked 
to the night. 


END OF BOOK I 


BOOK II 


CHAPTER I 

When the plumber died Topsail Janet left the house in 
the Back Street and took a single room at the Old Quay, 
whose window looked into the rusty walls of the beetling 
Quarry. In the first year of her bereavement she hovered 
with a quick hunger about his grave ; but every succeed- 
ing Sunday the grave grew deeper. She prayed that she, 
too, might die. She had to take to whelk-gathering, 
and rarely saw the sun within her room, for she went 
out at dawn and returned, wet and weary to the bone, 
at lamp-light. Carrying her bag of whelks she would 
creep cautiously from the village boys. “ Topsail Janet ! 
Topsail Janet ! ” they would shout mockingly, and career- 
ing against her would send her staggering forward. She 
wore her mother’s tippet ; and once, when it fluttered in 
the breeze, some one said “ Topsail,” and the name 
stuck to her. For a long time the name burned as a 
stigma ; but habit made the brand cold. 

There was a profound contrast between the parsimony 
of her life and the vastness of the sea, her daily com- 
panion. She waded at evening in gold-red pools, creep- 
ing over the russet tangle, scarce visible save for a flutter- 
ing drugget petticoat. At dawn she was a grey toiler on 
a grey isle, which the tide had given up for a little while, 
only to drive her shoreward with a gleam of flashing 
teeth. At times the shore-ice had to be broken; at 

152 


GILLESPIE 


153 


times the squalls rushed up in black to her feet, and the 
rain rose along the sea swamping her in misery. To 
happy people she probably looked picturesque, wading 
in the salt-water pools or crawling about the rocks, as 
she plucked here and there a whelk and cast it into a 
rusty tin can. 

She had her own bigness of heart. One day, as she 
stretched her tired back and gazed vacantly at the bare 
sea running in white flashes to the empty horizon, the 
north wind brought her a gift. High in the blue she 
saw a great rocking bird. It plunged downwards, sheered 
towards the cliffs, cannoned with a splash of feathers 
against the wall of stone, and fell among the sea-bent. 

Often she had scurried for home, when, in the dusk, 
the whales arose out of the sea and fluked across the 
bay. Now she was more greatly scared as she watched 
the helpless flutter of wings. She divined the beating 
of the pinions to be death. With her heart choking 
within her she flew along the lonely shore, hearing the 
noise of the great wings, as if the shadow of death rustled 
at her heels. Once, round a sheltering point, she stopped, 
panting. In the silence she heard the labour of the 
wings slacken and cease. Her courage returned. The 
solan would be dead. The sea babbled plaintively on 
the shore. Everything in the stillness was as it had 
been. Suddenly there was a sharp scream, child-like with 
its load of pain. Her heart stood still. Again all was 
profoundly silent. She peered round the rock, and 
clutching at her bosom, stumbled forward, and saw a 
white inert mass. As she crept towards it the solan 
goose opened its bright eyes and beat the ground with 
one wing. This sign of life nerved her. She dropped 
on her knees and saw the white down dappled with 
blood. The hills began to spin slowly about her and 
the sea grow dark, when the wing beat again with a 


154 


GILLESPIE 


feeble spasmodic movement, and a low croak gurgled in 
the throat of the bird. She thought the sound came 
through running blood. A fierce wave of pity swept 
over her, and she put out her hand and touched the 
ruffled neck. At the touch the bird struggled on its 
side along the ground. She followed cautiously, wishing 
that her hands were less rough. The bird with the 
beautiful pinions became holy in her eyes. Taking off 
her shawl she wrapped the broken-winged solan in it, 
tenderly as a mother her first-born, and held the struggling 
bundle till it lay exhausted, her heart crying out at the 
terror of the bird. Leaving her bag, her whelks, her all, 
to the greedy tide she set off for home, wild with appre- 
hension lest the bird die in her hands. 

Dr. Maclean was called in. He had hurried at the 
summons of Topsail, wondering if she had caught pneu- 
monia at last. When he was told that his patient was 
a bird he swore in relief, and bound up the mangled 
wing. 

“ Some day, Topsail, you’ll fly too,” he said, going 
out. 

She looked at him open-mouthed. 

“ The Bible says that angels have wings. One of 
these days you’ll fly out of the window and over the 
quarry there.” 

“ Ach ! away wi’ ye, doctor.” 

“ That’s how you’ll go to heaven.” 

Part of her small store went to the milk-cart. The 
sick bird refused the milk, even though she sweetened 
it with sugar. In deep anxiety she watched by it through 
the long evening, mending her fire with the best of her 
drift-wood, and making a nest for it with a blanket off the 
bed. In the morning she consulted Ned o’ the Horn, 
who contemptuously kicked her saucer aside and ordered 
fresh herring. She went to the Quay to beg. The sharp 


GILLESPIE 


155 


eyes of the bird swung round, needle-like in their bright- 
ness at the smell of the fish, the long sinewy neck flashed 
out; in a vast wonder she saw the tail of the herring 
vanish. Croak ! croak ! came the low, glad note of 
thanks, going straight to her heart. Herring after 
herring vanished in the maw of the starving bird. She 
stared fascinated, and felt like a mother feeding her 
babe. 

Now she had something to live for. Evening after 
evening she hastened home to the solace of her ministry, 
till one night the bird rose up with craning neck, its great 
wings sweeping the floor — her babe no longer, but a man 
grown restless for the outer world, as the strong rumour 
of the sea invaded its haven. With tears she recognised 
the end of the companionship. 

She cut the cord on its feet and felt the bird lusty in 
her arms. She clung to it, her face whipped with the 
powerful wings, and staggered to the stair-head. The 
evening was high, clear, and calm. “ Good-bye,” she 
cried, and opened her arms. Up, up, in strong flight, 
squawking loudly; up into the clear heaven, standing 
out against the opal sky. Over the Planting into the 
north it flew, and the monstrous sky was empty. 

She returned to her room and sat in the lampless dusk, 
and in the silence heard the phantom hobbled feet which 
would never, never more crackle and scrape on the floor. 
She had lost her second friend. 

By the sea-edge, schooled to patience, her face became 
sadder, her eyes quieter. The silence of the sea, the 
solitude of the hills were part of her being. In the summer 
and part of the autumn she ceased from the shore and 
gathered the swathes behind the mowers. Her body was 
strong and supple, and she could work without great 
fatigue for a whole day. The work was a holiday, for it 
brought respite from solitude. Pleasant to her was the 


156 


GILLESPIE 


conversation at the dinner-hour in the shade of the 
hedges. “ It’s meat an’ drink to be wi’ folk whiles,” 
she would say cheerily. 

The iron of circumstance galled her soul so much now 
that she began to dream of eternal rest. She wondered 
if she would rejoin the plumber. It was the dream of 
a more wonderful dawn than had ever broken upon her 
sight across the sea. When overcome with weariness 
there would steal across her, like music, the thought that 
rest could be gained at any time in the sepulchre of cool, 
shadowy darkness at her feet. Sitting on a rock, her 
whelk-can at her side, she would gaze into the sea beneath 
her, watching the shimmering green. It was a place 
un visited by hunger, unvexed by toil. She whispered 
to herself that were it not for the kindly face of the land 
she would go. Fixing a wistful gaze on the wide sky 
and its sailing clouds, the green of the valleys and the 
old forests, the isles and the winding beaches, and the 
sea itself, hung with the shadows of woods as the walls 
of a room with paintings, she would whisper : 

“ It’s as white and bonny as a waen’s cairryin’ clothes,” 
and sighing, would bend to scraping again in the tangle. 
Penury was now disarmed. She went, accompanied by 
the secret thought of rest. 

One morning she saw a dead man in the water beneath 
Barlaggan. Unafraid she dragged the body ashore ; 
with her shawl dried the yellow-stained face, and in it 
wrapped the body. She found strength to be alone 
with the dead; and not till the policeman came that 
night and questioned her did she know fear. The look 
of the dead would not depart from her — the wet hair, 
the blue of the withered eyes, drained for ever of their 
moisture. “ As blae as a berry ” they were, she told 
the policeman. 

The following morning she stopped at sight of the 


GILLESPIE 


157 


Barlaggan beach, suddenly afraid of the sea. Where 
would she have gone ? Only now she thought of that. 
It was a cold, cruel beast, this sea. How its waters had 
plashed in the open, raw mouth and about the grey hair 
matted on the temples. What a poor thing she would 
have been bobbing in by the Perch, past the Island, 
through the herring-boats, till she came all tangled and 
ragged, with her boots full of water, to the mud beneath 
the shops — her tippet awry, her dress torn, her breasts 
wounded, lying on her back, her face up to the sky. The 
fishermen would carry her away, shaking their heads 
and whispering. They would not bury her beside the 
plumber, but in a lonely place, with a piece of wood at 
her head. No, God be thankit, she hadn’t done it, and 
without looking so much as once, turned her back upon 
the sea and bade it farewell for ever. She saw the corn 
wave on Lonend, and a flood of happiness filled her 
heart. She stood listening to the birds in the wood, and 
hated death with a great hatred, and the sea, its regent. 
A long-broken string in the harp was mended. Her 
mind bloomed like a late winter flower, and people saw 
on her face a new content. She overtook some children 
on the road beyond the “ Ghost.” She did not, as she 
was used, furtively steal by, but walked behind them, 
greedy of ear for their babble. She seemed to herself 
to have suffered resurrection. Her mind was smoothed 
and folded down out of all asperity. She believed in the 
compassion of God, in the kindliness of man, and made 
up her mind — she would open a shop. No longer would 
she rake on that lonely shore, beside that cruel sea. 

She turned in at the door of the Good Templars’ Hall. 
In the ante-room upon a table, in a long black coffin, lay 
the stranger whom the sea had brought to her feet. 
To-morrow at noon he was to be buried. Timidly she 
stepped forward, drawing her shawl about her head, 


158 


GILLESPIE 


and peered. Something deep down stirred within her — 
a sense of the sadness and pathos which that strange still 
face gave to the room. The tears welled up in her eyes. 
She went forward on tip-toe, touched the cold brow with 
her hand, and closing her eyes, laid her lips upon the 
forehead. 

With a swelling in her throat she hurried out, scuffled 
up the street, knocked at the postmaster’s door, and 
asked him if he would rent to her the shop in Mac- 
Calman’s Lane. Her renunciation was complete. She 
had triumphed over the sea. 


CHAPTER II 


From the beginning the shop was a failure. It was 
a little shop with a bell over the door to warn her of the 
entry of customers when she herself was in the back- 
room, for she was slightly deaf. At first she sold groceries, 
but the fishing was a failure ; times got steadily worse : 
she had to give “ tick ” till her groceries were devoured. 
She took to sweets — toffee-balls which she made herself ; 
packets of Epsom salts ; black thread ; Christmas cards ; 
crockery; toys. Her best trade was in weekly journals 
for boys. The favourite was The Boys of London and 
New York — a pale, green sheet; and, of course, “the 
penny horrible.” Parents spoke to the Receiver of Wrecks, 
the pompous proprietor of the “Anchor Hotel,” who was 
chairman of the School Board and of the Literary Associa- 
tion. He pulled a severe eyebrow, and said that such 
pernicious traffic ought to be put down. He was a 
fitting Oracle, being the father of a brood of children, 
while poor Topsail was childless. He spoke to Mr. 
Kennedy, the head master, who refused to interfere with 
lawful commerce, and uttered the heresy that such 
literature stimulated the imagination. The Receiver 
of Wrecks muttered something about men in their 
dotage, and high time he was retiring. 

Topsail, oblivious of this civic wrangling, stood all 
day behind her counter, a little woman, visible from 
the shoulders upwards. She could not read. It was 
pathetic to watch her selling her books. Her face, 
brooding upon unflagging domestic sorrows, became 

159 


160 


GILLESPIE 


wary and alert as soon as a boy entered. Her shrewd, 
persuasive eyes were upon him as she doggedly arranged 
her books of red-skins with the most cunning disorder. 
She had a curious air of literary familiarity as she recom- 
mended this and disparaged that, just as the coloured 
picture on the cover caught her fancy. She was especially 
pleased with careering horsemen. Did a boy hesitate, 
fingering two alluring volumes with a penny between 
his teeth, she fancied he had two months ago already 
perused one of them, and as she stooped to lift a fresh 
bundle from behind the deeps of the counter, a volume, 
not under dispute, was whipped into the boy’s pocket. 
Foreign coins were passed upon her when these entered 
the town ; so that the little shop, the solitary isle in the 
vast sea of her widowhood, was soon swamped. She 
vended sweets and literature, but scarce could purchase 
bread. She spent many nights in tears, and at last found 
refuge in an itinerant Jew who sold boots from a black 
oilskin pack. The pack carried away her household 
gods to the pawn-shops of Greenock and Glasgow. 
Thus, while the front shop glittered with toys and the 
bright covers of “ penny dreadfuls,” Topsail shivered in 
the bleak, denuded back-room. At last she was driven 
from this desolation to take comfort in the gauds of her 
shop. And the Jew came no more. Those precious 
things with which the plumber had lined their little nest 
were scattered through mean houses in the city of Glas- 
gow ; and Topsail, with eyes full of pain, turned the key 
in the door. She was a piteous spectacle as she shuffled 
along the pavement and hurriedly crossed the Square 
into the dazzling light which fell upon her, streaming out 
from a wide entrance and from three large plateglass 
windows. Draggled, forlorn, abject, she paused at 
the brilliant entrance, quaking. She remembered Gilles- 
pie as a kind polite gentleman who had visited her 


GILLESPIE 


161 


husband on a business of pipes, rhones, and the like for 
Muirhead Farm. It was the remembrance of his kind- 
ness which lured her now to his imposing shop, into which 
she crept with furtive air, watching aghast the trail of 
muddy water which every step left behind on the clean 
floor. There was a pleasant air of warmth within. A 
barrel of apples was tilted up immediately inside the 
entrance against a stack of biscuits in tin boxes, which 
were surmounted by wooden boxes full of chocolates. 
Away on the left was a deep, dim interior, full of bales 
of cloth, ropes, glittering tin- ware ; on the right, shelves 
were loaded with provisions of all sorts. Her eyes were 
riveted on a large half -cheese. The smell of the fruit 
gave a stinging sensation in her thin, dry nostrils, and 
she felt faint with hunger. She had not imagined there 
was so much food-stuff in the world as she gazed round 
the shop. No one was to be seen. Everything was 
strangely quiet. She heard a clock on the wall in front 
of her ticking. Uneasily she felt comfortable. The 
heat from a large oil-lamp beat on her face. Suddenly 
she heard some one behind her in the entrance stamping 
the rain from his boots. She turned and saw Gillespie 
filling the doorway, his large, red face full of soft laughter. 
He smiled at her and she felt at ease, and jerked a 
tremulous hand back from her bosom. 

“ It’s a dirty night,” he said, and walked slowly 
towards the counter. She followed like a prisoner. 

“ Ay,” she faltered. 

“ And what’s ado the nicht, Topsail ? ” 

“ I canna keep my shop open any longer.” There 
was a hunted look in her eyes. The words burst out 
involuntarily as she strove to suppress a sob. Her teeth 
chattered violently. 

“ I could never understan’ what you were doin’ wi’ a 
shop. Throwin’ money away I’ll go bound ye.” 

M 


162 


GILLESPIE 


She hung her head, chidden. 

“ An’ what’s your wull wi’ me, Topsail ? ” 

He spoke so sympathetically that she took courage 
again. 

“ I’m a done wumman.” Her mouth was still tremb- 
ling so that she could scarce speak. The smell of the 
apples, pungent in her nostrils, made her faint. The 
dazzling light of the lamps was hurting her eyes. 

“ We’re a’ ’ill aff thae bad times,” he said affably ; 
“ if I gied tick I’d sune hae to shut my shop lik’ yersel’.” 

His eyes smiled down upon her, their light as oil upon 
the tumult of her breast. 

“ I thought ye might gie me a job in the store or at 
the guttin’.” In press of business Gillespie hired the 
Back Street women, especially on days when there was 
a big herring fishing. 

“ It’s a job ye’re aifter. Weel, 111 gie that my con- 
seederation.” But his mind was made up. He needed 
a servant — one who could turn her hand to anything — in 
the shop, at the stores, in the house. His wife was 
become quite useless. He had forbidden her the shop. 
If he was any judge this woman would suit. On the 
brink of bankruptcy and starvation, she would be vastly 
content with bed and board. 

“ Hae you, Topsail, my wumman ; put that in your 
pooch.” He gave her an apple from the barrel. She 
was dimly conscious through her sudden tears of its red, 
sleek surface. Gillespie gauged well the effect of the 
obolus ; and that night Topsail slept high up in the 
garret above the third storey over Gillespie’s shop, on a 
little iron bed, in a room shaped like a coffin. On the 
morrow, the school-boys, having rushed down the Back 
Street lane in the ten minutes’ interval at half -past eleven, 
found her door blankly closed. Their place of commerce 
was gone, and Brieston became singularly empty, untli, 


GILLESPIE 


163 


on the next day, they learned that a corner of one of 
Gillespie’s counters was reserved for the vending of their 
literature. The camel had swallowed the gnat. Gillespie 
omitted to render an account of charge and discharge 
to Topsail. And she, happy in her asylum, forgot her 
tawdry books, her shiny toys, her little bundles of tape, 
black thread, and such-like fry. She was too busy. 
Deep in the night the flap, flap of her heelless slippers 
could be heard on the pavement as she scurried to draw 
sea-water for Gillespie’s oysters. By candle-light she 
could be seen in the washing-house behind the house 
bending over a tub, and her cheery, nasal voice could be 
heard singing to the stars, “ Last night there were four 
Mairies,” and : 

“ 0 ! he sailed East, East, 

And he sailed West, West, 

He sailed unto a Turkish Quay ” — 

and in the afternoons, with Eoghan upon her knee, and 
a hungry light of motherhood in her eyes, crooning : 

“ 0 love ! it is pleasin’, 

O love ! it is teasin’, 

Love ’tis a pleasure, while it is new; 

But as you grow older 
The love it grows colder 
An’ fades away like the morning dew **■ — 

and, bubbling with laughter, she would hug and kiss the 
child, till her vehemence made it cry. Her mistress sat 
with her hands in her lap, and a wan smile on her face, 
looking out upon the harbour and its ships. She was 
thinner now than when at Muirhead, and more beautiful, 
with her fine face, like ivory, surmounted with its thick 
coil of raven-dark hair. Gillespie prided himself on the 
slave he had captured and then forgot all about her. 
She was another piece of his chattels — a profitable slave. 
Yet Rome fell by her slaves. Slave and mistress were 
comrades. 


CHAPTER III 


Topsail was ill at ease for two weeks because the 
house was so big. She was also puzzled by Gillespie. 
The idea slowly ebbed from her mind that he was a kind 
gentleman. Her mistress, afraid of Topsail’s discovery 
of his ruthless character, tried to blind her. She had 
sunk to that hopeless level of a wife who, downtrodden, 
conceals her wound from the world by loyal defence of 
her husband. Topsail feigned ignorance, though in her 
heart she regarded her mistress as a child who sat half 
the day dreaming at the fireside, and telling her servant 
of the gay Edinburgh days she once had, or at the kitchen 
window gazing vacantly at the cats on the roof of the 
washing-house. 

Gillespie had discovered the fact — in what way they 
could not divine — that they were pinching off the bread. 

4 4 1 used to mand nine shaves off a loaf/ 5 he said one 
morning at the breakfast-table, as he stood, with pro- 
truding tongue, slicing down a loaf with a large ham- 
knife. “ The loafs are surely growin’ smaller noo-a- 
days.” He cast a quick, suspicious glance at Topsail. 
“ Aifter this I’ll cut the loaf mysel’. I’m jaloosin’ it’s to 
Brodie’s ye go whiles to buy the breid.” The two women 
heard him in guilty silence. “We’ll hae pitataes an 5 
herrin’ for the dinner,” he said, and picking up the 
portion of the uncut loaf, put it inside the press in the 
wall. He asked Topsail if she had finished riddling the 
dross in the ree. She replied that she had. The two 
women, gazing dumbly at each other, listened till his heavy 
footsteps died away down the outside stone stair. The 

164 


GILLESPIE 


165 


face of the mistress was blank with despair; that of 
Topsail comical in its puzzled, puckered wonderment. 

“ What’ll we do now, Janet ? ” 

Mrs. Strang’s mouth drooped sorrowfully, like that 
of a child who, chidden for a petty fault, is on the brink 
of tears. Topsail’s face was of that summer type that 
even disaster could not stamp with the mark of fatality. 
The sunshine of her smile would mitigate the direst stroke 
of calamity. Her mistress’s mouth said — we are lost; 
Topsail’s eyes — there is hope. Her timid, vacillating 
mistress looked at her with the child-appeal in her 
humid eyes which never failed of going home to Topsail’s 
heart. 

“ I don’t know what way to turn. Oh ! dear me, 
Janet ; to think that Gillespie would say such a thing. I 
don’t know what’s coming over him.” The bracelet on 
her wrist rattled as her hand shook. 

Topsail feigned to fill her eyes with the dust which her 
mistress had thrown. 

“ He’s that thrang in the shop he doesna ken what 
he’s sayin’.” She flashed her white teeth, nodding her 
head and smiling. “ He’ll forget a’ aboot it. The 
morn he’ll be cornin’ runnin’ tae ax if we’ve enough 
money for the hoose.” 

“ Ye needna say anything about this outside. Lonend 
might hear about it,” answered her mistress. 

“ Outside ! ” said Topsail in scorn ; “ I’ve mair tae 
do than be bletherin’ tae a wheen women scartin’ their 
heids a’ day at the Pump.” She spoke vehemently, 
convincingly. 

Feminine artifice having thus smoothed the matter, 
the two women cast off the cloak of dissembling and 
immediately attacked reality. 

“ We’ll just hae to hain off the breid in spite o’ him.” 

In the indomitable light of her eyes victory was assured 


166 


GILLESPIE 


to the weakling, who looked at Topsail in vague wonder. 
This cunning Chancellor of the Exchequer opened up 
cheerful estimates of revenue and expenditure, and 
laughingly consented to starve herself. There was 
always one source of income upon which Gillespie could 
not lay piratical hands. At night in bed Topsail knitted 
little socks for Eoghan, and asked Gillespie for money to 
buy them at Mrs. Tosh’s. 

Yet sources of revenue were desperately limited. Their 
meagre household necessaries were sent up from that 
nefarious shop into which Mrs. Strang was not allowed, 
and where Topsail ventured only in the morning to wash 
the floor under the eye of Gillespie. 

“ We’ll order a bottle o’ the auld Apenty watter.” 

Mrs. Strang was smiling now. She had a charming, 
dreamy smile. 

“ Ye’ll need to drink a bottle every week for your 
stomach.” 

Mrs. Strang had been ordered Apenta water before 
the birth of Eoghan. Gillespie once took a mouthful 
and spat it out. “ Soor wersch stuff to be spendin’ the 
bawbees on,” he said, and would never -go back to it. 
Thereafter it was a safe place for whisky concealed behind 
the coloured label on the bottle. Topsail had soon 
become aware of this decanter. 

That same afternoon Gillespie was informed by one 
woman that the other was sick. 

“ She’ll need a bottle o’ Apenty watter. She’s never 
been right since she had Eoghan.” 

Gillespie was eating his potatoes and salt herring. A 
pile of potato skins lay on the table. Topsail was empty- 
ing the last of the potatoes from a pot into a cracked 
plate. 

“ It’s hersel’ wanted Eoghan ; no’ me,” he answered, 
his mouth full of food. 


GILLESPIE 


167 


“ I’ll need three shullin’s for breid an’ three-an’-six 
for the Apenty watter.” She had turned to the sink, 
and was rinsing out the pot. 

“ Whatna breid ? ” 

She flouted him with a laugh. “ Hear tae him ! 
Whatna breid ! Are we tae live on win’ ? ” 

“ Hae ye bocht three shullings worth o’ breid this 
week ? ” It was Friday afternoon. 

“ Three shullings worth. It wad hae been five shullings 
if I didna scrape an’ sterve mysel’ an’ her.” The pot 
rattled viciously in the sink. Topsail smiled into it as 
she thought how she was tickling him with this economic 
feather. 

Gillespie laid down his knife and stretched out his 
legs beneath the table. 

“ Let me see the baker’s accoont, Janet,” he asked 
with a purr. Here were the methods of the shop being 
carried into illegitimate quarters of the household. 

Topsail was nonplussed. 

“ Nae use o’ fashin’ wi’ accoonts in the hoose ; we’re 
no’ acquent wi’ that.” 

“I doot no’,” mused Gillespie; “if ye’d wrocht wi’ 
your wee bits o’ accoonts ye micht hae been in your wee 
shop yet.” 

“ I haena a heid for thae things.” She was becoming 
impatient, and rattled the fishpan away from the fire- 
place. 

“ It’s because ye haena a heid for thae things, Topsail, 
my wumman, that I want to see the account frae the 
baker ” — he hesitated a moment and rose — “ an’ frae Kyle 
the chemist,” and with a gentle blistering smile he passed 
Topsail, giving her a playful clap on the shoulder. 

Topsail was beginning to comprehend commerce and 
Gillespie. 

“ The cat,” she said, looking towards the door out of 


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GILLESPIE 


which he had passed ; “ the big red cat.” Thus she learned 
that a deeper craft was needed to outwit Gillespie. She 
would not confess defeat to her mistress. This was not 
because her mistress would be deprived of her cheering 
“ wee drap in the mornin’.” Oh, no ! Topsail would 
see to that somehow; but she could not bear the look 
of vague alarm in the face of her mistress, and the spectacle 
of her eyes drowning in misery like kittens in the sea; 
and hear her pathetic attempts to “ redd up ” the mis- 
understanding with her husband. “ Dearie me ! I 
don’t know what’s cornin’ over Gillespie. He was aye 
the good man to me at Muirhead. Did I tell ye, Janet, 
o’ the grand party he gave after we were married ? ” and 
the clinking of the bracelet would cease along the keys 
of the piano, and Topsail, with a fond smile upon her 
patient face, would listen to a tale that had been often 
told. 


CHAPTER IV 


Dr. Maclean said that Gillespie had solved the problem 
of the British working woman. Certainly the folk who 
kept servants envied Gillespie his treasure. It seemed 
there was nothing which Topsail could not do. She could 
wield a shovel in the ree ; gut and pack herring ; harness 
and stable a horse — Gillespie sent a van now twice a week 
to the country. His dealings were mainly by barter. 
He preferred this way of getting fresh country eggs and 
butter for his shop. He taught Topsail the secret art of 
making one pound of butter into two by a process of 
mixing equal parts of butter and of milk, whipping them 
together in one dish which was placed within another 
containing hot water for a period sufficient to heat the 
mixture without allowing it to run to oil. It was then 
allowed to cool. He sold it a little cheaper than the rate 
in the other shops, and drew custom. He dared the law 
in this. He dared the law also in the matter of his scales, 
which were weighted. Lonend got wind of it, and lodged 
information with the Inspector of Weights and Measures 
at Bannerie, who warned Gillespie. Six months later 
Lonend insisted on the inspector taking action, as the 
matter had not been remedied. The inspector, arriving 
by steamer from Bannerie, took Campbell the policeman 
with him, and paid a surprise visit to the shop in the 
Square. Gillespie was summoned to appear in court at 
Bannerie; was fined, and bribed the editor of the local 
paper to suppress the news. Lonend gloated and told 
the story 4n Brodie’s. 


169 


170 


GILLESPIE 


But Gillespie was impervious to the common tongue. 
He stripped the lead from his scales and instructed 
Topsail to commence rearing pigs and poultry ; and after 
the episode of the baker’s account to take to baking. 
She was indifferent in the art, never having had a chance 
to learn in the vigorous life of scraping the shore and the 
exacting one of vending literature. She summoned Mary 
Bunch; and after some mistakes and a little waste of 
flour and meal, which horrified her — for she was so care- 
ful as to husband scraps for two days and of them make a 
dinner on the third day — she became the most economical, 
and one of the nimblest and best bakers in the town. 
Mary Bunch retired, an emeritus-tutor, with a wallet of 
news for Mrs. Galbraith, the chief item of its contents 
being the fact that Morag had a penchant for “ a glass,” 
and was starved of her “ crave ” by Gillespie. 

Topsail rose as a rule when she was wakened by the 
fishermen coming home towards the break of day, and 
dressed herself in a short drugget petticoat of black with 
a red stripe, and a pair of thick-soled boots which had 
been given her by Gillespie as wages. The house- work 
must be got through by the forenoon and the shop 
cleaned out, for Gillespie had always one or two little 
tasks of his own for her. Friday was her busiest day. 
On that day she polished the seven metal covers hanging 
in a row over the dresser; the two brass candlesticks; 
the pendulum disc of the wag-at-the-wa’ that once told 
the time to Galbraith, and washed all the jugs, bowls, 
basins, and china on the shelves. The stairs were steep, 
and she stumbled under the weight of coals which she 
carried up from the cellar in the washing-house for the 
week-end. Then she lit her candle in the damp washing- 
house when the cats wrangled overhead on the slates, 
and went through the week’s washing. She was afraid 
of the long-armed shadows swaying on the walls from 


GILLESPIE 


171 


the wind-shaken flame of the candle. They terrified her 
with their sombre suggestiveness of menace. She was 
glad of the feline snarling overhead, and joined in the 
babel with the “ Four Mairies ” and “ Love, it is pleasin’.” 
Her only taste of fresh air, except when she was hanging 
the washing over the little back plot which only the 
sparrows know, was when she blew out the candle, and 
scurried along the passage, and down to the mouth of 
the close. In the amenity of the night she felt a strange 
sense of alleviation, as the wind from the sea cooled her 
brow. The silence of the great spaces of blue-black 
darkness and of the shining sky touched the deeps of her 
soul. She would stand with her eyes upon the stars, 
watching them with awe, and puzzling dimly as to their 
life. She believed heaven lay behind those glittering 
eyes, and wondered if the immaculate plumber looked 
down in sorrow upon the travail of her life. Then she 
would scurry through the close and up the stair, tired to 
the bone, and so wearied that she could scarce sleep. 
She began to be afflicted with rheumatism in the knees, 
and there was a swelling about the knuckles of her left 
hand. Some nights in bed her body was bathed in flame. 
This was a legacy from her old life on the shore, aggra- 
vated by the cold of winter nights ; for she had only one 
thin blanket on her bed. She covered herself with the 
drugget petticoat. 

She was never heard to grumble. Willingness, which 
was her characteristic, robbed slavery of its thraldom. 
Even on the day of the annual Fair she was patient and 
cheerful, though she was worked to death. For the 
farmers who came to pay their accounts dinner had to be 
prepared in the front parlour. While the town was still 
asleep she was up, peering out at the solemn harbour, on 
which deep shadows from the hills lay like sheets of iron. 
The parlour was dusted. She never forgot to admire 


172 


GILLESPIE 


the green plumage of the stuffed parroquet in the glass 
case, and handled the mummy as if it were alive. The 
dinner dishes and cutlery were washed and set on the 
table, and part of the dinner prepared by the time that 
the organ of the hobby horses began to bray at nine 
o’clock. Gillespie always ordered “ a sheep’s inside ” 
for the occasion. Topsail, with hands smeared with 
blood, cleaned it out; carried the head and trotters to 
the blacksmith to be singed ; made black puddings with 
the blood supplied by the butcher. She served up the 
head and trotters with the black puddings and the liver. 
Gillespie saw it was the cheapest way to feed the farmers, 
who arrived in the afternoon with hunger in their big, 
red faces. The younger men nudged Topsail in passing, 
winking and leering at her, and inviting her to come out 
for her “ fairing,” passed their nasty jokes to each 
other across her face. Their boots were grey with mud. 
Their dogs followed them, sniffing around, and soiled the 
horse-hair furniture. “ The more the merrier,” cried 
Gillespie jovially at the stair-head. He was always in 
good form on the day of the Fair. While they were 
eating, Topsail herded the dogs to the washing-house and 
fed them there. As the day advanced a babel of noise 
filled the sea-shore street, thick now with people come 
from Mainsfoot to Bannerie. The Square in front of 
the house was crammed with horses. Strung around the 
harbour-front were the booths, the shows, the swings, 
the shooting-galleries, the ice-cream and fruit-stalls. 
The nickering of mares, the clatter of horses’ hoofs, the 
cries of showmen and jugglers; the yelling of coopers, 
negroes, and men in charge of roulette-boards; the 
blasphemy of drunkards; and over all, the booming of 
the organ at the hobby horses rang in her ears all day; 
and she had scarcely leisure to look out on the welter. 
Long after the last naphtha light had gone out, she would 


GILLESPIE 


173 


stagger like one sleep-walking up the narrow, rickety 
stair to her iron bed in the Coffin, wondering where, in 
the morning, she would begin to attack the pile of dinner 
dishes. Gillespie always gave her a bag of painted sweets 
for her “ fairing.” These, when he got a little older, 
she always gave to Eoghan. 

“ That’s my fairin’ to you, my darlin’,” she would say, 
with an access of tenderness, almost cheating herself into 
the belief that she had bought them for him. It never 
occurred to her that she had bought them at a price, 
though she had not purchased them for coin of the realm. 
It was the one gleam of comfort in that long, weary, 
harassing day that her gift would be ready for her darlin’. 
The light of angels’ wings hovered about the paper bag 
in her bosom, and brought a tender smile to her face as 
it took the pillow in heavy sleep. At her second Fair a 
well-to-do farmer from Mainsfoot slipped a shilling into 
her hand as he was passing out. She had never received 
a tip before, and looked down at the coin in wonder, 
thinking the man had made some mistake. That night 
she slipped across the blazing Square to the dark lane 
at the Bank, and down through the Back Street to Brodie’s. 
Within half-an-hour, with gleeful eyes and flashing teeth, 
she thrust her “ fairing ” upon her mistress. 

It was the night of “ wee Setterday,” the last night of 
the year. The shops were open late; and Topsail was 
at the close-mouth. The lights of the town gleamed 
round the Harbour. Men and women, boys and girls 
moved briskly across the Square and up and down the 
streets. The stars overhead glittered in a brittle sky of 
frost. There was no one to speak to her. The loneliness 
of her life was extreme. The days of a happy childhood 
rushed back upon her; the happiness of being wooed 
and wed by the plumber. Then the veil of dreams within, 


174 


GILLESPIE 


which was her holy of holies, was rent by the hand of 
sorrow — the sorrow and emptiness of her later life, its 
bitter struggle, its childlessness, its penury, its chains. 
She sighed deeply as she timidly looked out on the 
thronged Square and the sea-shore street ablaze round the 
Harbour. She was about to creep up the close when she 
heard a thud, thud on the pavement that ran up from 
the corner of the house to the close-mouth. The one- 
legged man came nearer with a step now “forte” now 
“ piano.” 

“ It’s a fine night,” he said. 

He was about to pass on; but something softer than 
ordinary in Topsail’s voice stayed his wooden leg. 

“ Ay ! a braw night, Jeck.” 

He leaned against the wall, took out and lit a cigarette. 
He was a lithe man, with red face and grey eyes, and a 
head that butted forward a little. In his youth he had 
been one of the crew in an American millionaire’s yacht, 
which haunted the Mediterranean ports. He had seen 
Paris; had looked down the crater of Vesuvius; had 
visited the catacombs of Rome, following “ the gentry ” 
with rugs or lunch-basket, but in his own words he had 
“ touched wood,” meaning thereby that he had suffered 
a fall on a dark, windy night on deck, and come home 
with a wooden leg. Since then he had stood every day 
on the Quay, watching the commerce in coal and herring, 
and smoking cigarettes in a vast idle content. But 
cigarettes and a wooden leg being useless to appease 
hunger, he became the man of the Pier. Possessed of a 
large two-wheeled barrow, he transported luggage to the 
hotels; caught the steamer’s lines; carried the baggage 
of “ swells ” aboard the steamer, and was the commercial 
travellers’ man. Suave as an Oriental, he gently but 
firmly took their show cases and wheeled them from door 
to door of the shops, devouring cigarettes. He was known 


GILLESPIE 


175 


as “ Jeck the Traiveller.” In his slack hours he stood 
among the fishermen on the quay-head in the lee of the 
“ Shipping Box,” leading them with the most fabulous 
lies across Southern Europe. They were particularly 
interested in the doings of the American millionaire — his 
drinking-bouts, and of how, in his cups, he would descend 
and, for a wager, shovel coals with his own stokers ; how, 
being a brawny man, he would fell them on the plates 
with his fist, and soothe the wound in the sober morning 
with a five-pound note. There was a rivalry to submit to 
the blows of this butcher. Jeck the Traiveller, always in 
a slipper and cigarettes, mimicked the American accent, 
pirouetting, cigarette in hand. 

These Ulysses tales gave an itch to the young fisher- 
men to seek adventure, crisp bank-notes, and wooden 
legs in Mediterranean yachts. Ah ! he knew about 
ladies, this Jeck. When wheeling his traveller’s kit 
through the Square to Gillespie’s shop his tarry eye had 
fallen athwart the buxom Topsail, and we behold him 
about to coquette with the lady at the close-mouth on 
“ wee Setterday.” He opened in the orthodox way by 
casting an amorous glance upon her and inviting her to 
go for a walk. She laughed mirthfully. 

“ I dinna walk wi’ wan-leggit men.” 

The experiences which Jeck the Traveller’s far-famed 
itineraries had harvested were not wide enough to meet 
this rebuff. He was baffled; not beaten. 

“ Have ye had your Hogmanay, Janet ? ” 

She shook a smiling face in the glow of his cigarette. 
He offered to step round the corner into Gillespie’s for 
the necessary poke. Topsail blithely accepted this 
manna of the night ; and the talk veered from amorous 
trifles to the stern realities of life, as Topsail quietly 
munched the Hogmanay. Jeck gave her the news of 
the town and the Pier. The last thing he did was to 


176 


GILLESPIE 


carry up three scuttles full of coal against the morning. 
He felt that by these labours he had made an appreciable 
inroad upon her affections. And every Friday night we 
behold him whistling upon his wooden leg at the mouth 
of the close at nine o’clock; and, being an ardent and 
impatient wooer, sending her a communication by post. 
It was the first time that His Majesty’s Postal Service 
had ever been employed on the affairs of Topsail Janet. 
The missive was a gaudy post-card which Topsail natur- 
ally delivered into Gillespie’s hands. On the portion of 
one side was written 44 Janet Morgan ” ; on the other, 
44 space for communication,” these words — 44 God be with 
you till we meet again.” 

She received a rebuff or two every day from Gillespie. 
Soon she learned to expect nothing else, intermingled with 
sneers, covert or open. At first she had taken his jibes 
to heart, thinking him a kind man, and that the fault 
was hers. But quick to discover that her mistress was 
also the target of his mockery and rudeness, she found his 
jibes tolerable. 

He held the post-card between his forefinger and 
thumb. 

4 4 Topsail,” he cried, 44 hae ye a lover ? ” 

44 Ay,” she replied. 

44 An’ whaur is he, may I speir ? ” 

44 In heaven.” 

Gillespie was taken aback. 44 Nane sae bad an answer,” 
he said, 44 frae the writin’ that’s here — 4 God be with you 
till we meet again.’ ” 

A flame surged over Topsail’s face, and her hands 
trembled. Could the dead send messages by the post 
from beyond the stars ? Her mouth opened slowly 
upon Gillespie ; her eyes filled with a vague alarm. 

44 Gie me that,” she said, with a quaver in her voice. 

Gillespie flicked it in front of her face. 44 1 think I’ll 


GILLESPIE 177 

show’t to the minister — the bonny bit sermon.” Mockery 
darted from his eyes. 

“ I daur ye; I daur ye,” she screamed, and darting 
out her hand snatched the sacred missive from desecration 
and fled up the stairs, up, up to her still Coffin, where 
she sat down on the bed and pored on the face of the 
cardboard. It was pale grey, with a border of gold, and 
gaudy with facsimile stamps at all angles. The posi- 
tion of each stamp was interpreted by a honeyed phrase 
beneath it. Long did Topsail gaze, till the gold edge 
round the card became a ribbon of stars in the blue, and 
the shining face of the stamps a patch of the spangled 
heavens. At last, in some mysterious way, the plumber 
had spoken. She repeated the words softly to herself, 
“ God be with you till we meet again,” and the tears 
sprang in her eyes. Fervently she kissed the jewels of 
the skies, and slipped the divine benediction within her 
bosom. With shining eyes and flushed face she descended 
to the kitchen. Her conversation with her mistress became 
voluble and a little wild — was heaven full of stars like 
ribbons of gold, and how did mortals transported thither 
send these pearls of Paradise to those upon this earth — 
on the wings of angels, was it ? Her mistress, sunk in 
dreams — they had been more than ordinarily lucky at 
Brodie’s that morning — nodded vaguely, and murmured 
that the kitchen was full of the drift of angels’ wings. A 
bar of sunlight swarming with gnats had slanted into the 
gloom of the kitchen. To Topsail the air was full of a 
mighty throbbing. Her fingers stole into her bosom till 
they touched the post-card, and suddenly she burst out 
singing in a loud, harsh voice : 

“ God be with you till we meet again. 

Till we me-ee-et n — 

The thinner voice of her mistress quavered in unison : 

N 


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GILLESPIE 


" Till we me-ee-et, 

Till we meet at Jesus’ feet; 

Till we me-ee-et, 

Till we me-et, 

God be with you till we meet again.’* 


At the close of the hymn there was a long silence in the 
kitchen. The sunbeam and the motes died away, and 
Topsail stood gazing out of the window at the departing 
glory with her awed face lifted up to heaven. 

That night she lay with the post-card beneath her 
cheek, and dreamed of bulwarks in the skies crusted with 
stars, over which the plumber leaned, picking them out 
and pasting them on to a letter. He beckoned to her 
with his hand and let the letter fall. As she ran beneath 
the heavens with her apron out, and caught the letter, 
a great glory of light struck upon her face, and with a 
gasp she opened her eyes to the broad day. She was 
late, and heard Gillespie shouting : 

“ Are ye in a trance, Topsail ? ” 

“ I’m cornin’, I’m cornin’,” she cried, leaping from bed. 
She thrust the post-card in her bosom and there, like 
a flower, she wore it all the morning. After dinner she 
had to go to the coal-ree. While riddling dross there 
behind the stable a horror of a great fear seized her. 
The plumber would be anxiously awaiting an answer. 
She hurried through her work and returned to her mistress, 
to whom she displayed the holy missive. 

“ This is a caird I got frae the plumber. Is he wantin’ 
an answer ? ” 

Her mistress, freed from the spell of dreams, turned 
a more alert face upon her. 

“ What plumber, Janet ? ” 

“ Him that’s deid an’ gone.” 

“ Janet ! Janet ! what are you saying ? The dead 
cannot send cards.” 


GILLESPIE 


179 


A look of misgiving came into Topsail’s face, but she 
fought for the hope that was in her. “ It’s fu’ o’ wee 
stars.” 

Her mistress stretched out a languid hand. “ Show me 
the post-card.” 

Topsail gave it up and devoured her mistress with 
her eyes. 

“ God be with you till we meet again.” 

“ Ay ! ay ! ” cried Topsail with irradiated face, taking 
an eager step forward. 

“ This is signed ‘ Jeck.’ Who is Jeck ? ” 

And in a flash Topsail understood. A single bright tear 
for the perished hope welled up on her eyelid. 

“ It’s no’ frae him, aifter a’,” she sighed. 

“ It’s from Jeck,” answered her mistress, who had 
turned over the card and was now laughing. 

“ What is’t ? ” Topsail’s face was puzzled. 

“ It’s the language of stamps.” 

“ Whatna thing is that ? ” Sorrow was warring with 
curiosity. 

4 4 Here is one which says, ‘ Forget-me-not,’ her mistress 
read. 

“ The black-a- viced deevil,” cried Topsail. “ Forget 
him ! It was only Friday night I saw him at the close- 
mouth.” 

“ Answer at once,” read her mistress, twisting the card 
round to the angle of the stamp. 

“ Answer ! aw ! I’ll gie him his answer.” 

“ Write to me as soon as possible.” 

“ ’Clare tae God ! Does he think I’m the school- 
maister ? ” 

“ Come soon.” 

“ Aw ! you bate I’ll come wi’ the brush in my 
hand.” 

“ Do you remember me ? ” 


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GILLESPIE 


4 4 Aw ! the timmer-leggit gomeril.” Tears of mirth were 
now in Topsail’s eyes. 

44 A kiss,” went on her mistress. 

44 A kiss ! is that on the caird ? Aw ! the fule, has he 
nae sense o’ shame ? ” 

44 1 love you : do you love me ? ” 

Topsail gasped. 44 God keep us; the auld fule. Just 
you wait; just you wait, my man; puttin’ a thae havers 
through the post-office ; the black-a-viced, timmer-leggit, 
tarry fule.” 

Jeck the Traiveller, emboldened by his amatory 
correspondence, whistled loud and boldly at the close- 
mouth and had not long to wait. 

44 Ye got the caird, Janet ? ” he asked anxiously. 

44 Ay ! I got the caird, Jeck.” 

44 The words o’ the stamps is just what’s in my he’rt.” 
He came a step nearer. 

44 Then ye hae a geyan he’rt fu’, Jeck.” 

44 Janet ! wad ye no’ lik’ to leave Gillespie’s ? There’s 
nothing like a hoose o’ your ain.” 

44 Ay ! your ain ribs is the best to rype.” 

He had piloted the wooden leg up alongside her. 

44 Janet ! wad ye be willin’ to tak’ up hoose along wi’ 
me? ” Deftly his arm went around her waist. 

She looked him full in the face for the fraction of a 
second, and the next smacked him where she had looked. 

44 I’ve a wheen pigs tae look aifter already; I dinna 
want anither.” 

And Jeck the Traiveller went on a blasphemous and 
hurried itinerary up the lane. 

Topsail remained at the close-mouth watching him 
till he had stumped round the corner. Then her eyes 
gravely searched the stars and she sighed. The sigh was 
not for Jeck, but for the face lost for ever behind the cold 
glittering constellations. 


CHAPTER V 


But Topsail had a love upon earth that satisfied in 
the baulked mother the child-hunger which had burned 
like a fire in her bosom these ten years. Eoghan was her 
child in everything but the bearing of it, and was a con- 
stant source of wonder to her. She would sit by the 
hour with the baby on her knees, examining its body; 
and when she heard the sucking noise which the child 
made with its thumb in its mouth, she ached to undo her 
tawdry blouse and press that mouth to her breast. She 
conned its body and repeated to the listless mother all 
she noted — the dark, tiny hairs on its legs, the creases 
of fat on its shoulders and neck. Every smile of the 
baby called forth an answering smile from Topsail who, 
when it cooed, answered with chuckle after chuckle. If 
the child cried with cholic, her heart would leap to her 
mouth in fear. The mother became jealous and, in a fit 
of passion, would snatch the baby into her arms and hug 
it to her breast. 

On the whole it was a good child, though it showed 
on occasion signs of temper ; but when it fell asleep this 
was forgotten, and all Topsail’s being surged up out of 
the depths, choking her with tenderness. “ Oh, the wee 
waen ; the wee henny lamb ; ” and she would sit devouring 
it with her eyes, immobile as a statue for fear of wakening 
it. She was glad to hear its cry during the night, because 
Gillespie had once summoned her to nurse the child, 
calling his wife a “ sleepy-heid.” Now she would steal 
down the stairs and, picking up the wailing creature, 

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182 GILLESPIE 

would scurry to her own. room and steal into bed, the 
baby in her arms. 

It was about this time, when the child was some 
twelve months old, that Topsail conceived the idea that 
her mistress should bear another child. “ I canna do 
withoot a waen,” she said; but her mistress looked at 
her with lack-lustre eyes, and, wearily smiling, shook her 
head. It was about this time also that J eck the Traiveller, 
who had discovered her passion for children, despoiled 
the wall of his mother’s house, and presented Topsail with 
a faded steel engraving of Christ blessing little children, 
which she hung on the wall of the Coffin. She loved Christ 
for His love of little children ; and often as she held the 
babe in her arms she would gaze up at His face in awe. 
She did not understand this Jesus, who lived far beyond 
the blue, and was seized with trembling when she re- 
membered that He had been hanged upon a Cross ; but 
her eyes would fill with tears as she gazed at Him sur- 
rounded by children. Once as she looked she heard the 
singing of invisible birds high up in the sky — a tumult 
of choragic larks. She peered out from her sloping 
window, holding the child’s face up to the heavens, and 
thought that angels stirred in the sky. A strange peace 
filled her soul. “ Och ! Eoghan ! Eoghan ! he’s up 
there.” It was the first time she had called the babe 
by its name as she thought of her husband in heaven. 
She wished to go to church. Gillespie acquiesced and 
suggested the Parish Church, because he was a deacon 
in the Free Church. It would do his trade no harm if 
one of his household were connected with the other 
church. She went for two Sundays, and was vastly dis- 
appointed in Mr. Stuart, who spoke too quickly. There 
was no stirring of angels in the heavens, no singing in the 
skies, and she returned famished to Jesus and the little 
children and her own babe. As she put off her widow’s 


GILLESPIE 


183 


weeds she ardently wished she had been one of the mothers 
of Salem, and had seen His face on that wonderful day. 
Her heart beat strongly in her bosom at the thought. 
She felt faint, and cast her eyes down from the picture 
upon the floor in shame of her boldness. She hurried 
with her dressing, and hastened downstairs to the kitchen 
to set the dinner, but discovered that her mistress had 
neglected to prepare it as she had promised. She heard 
Gillespie’s voice in the parlour angrily rating his wife. 
She very soon forgot her worries, however, because 
Eoghan had cut a tooth. 


CHAPTER VI 


Gillespie was now a man in middle life, ruddy, weather- 
tanned, with lank hair streaked over a hard, intellectual 
forehead. His determined jaw ran like a streak of stone 
down to his tight trap mouth. He had the look of a man 
who would thrive in the midst of competition, and find 
something to pick up no matter where he was. He was 
becoming a man of standing in Brieston, and was asked 
to supper in other people’s houses, through the influence 
of Lowrie the banker. Gillespie would have declined 
these invitations, but overcame his antipathy, because 
he spread thickly the butter which he had the keenest 
zest in eating at the tables of other men, took pride in 
his tactics, and brought them to his wife’s observation 
with gusto. On returning from church he took from his 
pocket a fair-sized handful of sweets. 

“ I clean forgot them,” he said to his wife, “ till I felt 
them in my pooch the day.” They had been handed 
round at the banker’s with nuts during the previous 
Wednesday evening. Mrs. Strang, with a pleased look on 
her face, held out her hand. 

“ Put them in the bottle o’ mixtures ” — he had an air 
as of achieving something notable ; “ they’ll sell to the 
waens lik’ the rest.” 

“ I never thought you could be so mean.” With a 
look of disgust on her face she refused to handle the 
sweets. He thrust his head forward. 

“ Is’t no draps o’ rain that fill the watter-barrel ? ” He 
took a keen pleasure in discoursing his prolegomena, 
“ an’ whiles a rain-barrel full is enough to mak’ the 

184 


GILLESPIE 


185 


fountain-heid o’ a burn if ye start it in the right place; 
an’ it’s no the first burn that has turned oot a braw 
river.” 

“ Or a dirty one,” she flashed. 

“ Hoots,” he said softly ; “ I’m no speakin’ o’ the burn 
at the Muirhead Eerm.” 

She flung up her head angrily. 

“I’d rather be there with the right man, than stealin’ 
sweeties from Lowrie the banker.” Her cheeks flamed 
scarlet. 

He was nettled. 

“ An’ wha’s the right man ? ” 

“ It’s no’ a sweety merchant, anyway.” 

“ Sweety merchant ! ” — he tossed the sweets from one 
hand to the other — “ is it no’ the sweety merchant ye hae 
to thank that ye’re no’ milkin’ coos an’ forkin’ dung frae 
morn till nicht ? ” 

Traces of youthful pride still left in her flared up. 

“ I’ve you to thank for taking me away from plenty 
and decency at Lonend. Where’s the tocher I brought 
ye ? Didn’t it set you on your feet ? You were in rags 
when you came trapping the rabbits about Lonend. I’m 
ashamed when I think of what I left there.” 

The scene was uncommon. Usually his wife made no 
show of fight, but mournfully acquiesced in all that he 
did. Gillespie had begun by neglecting her. After the 
birth of Eoghan he ignored her. When he discovered 
that she drank he scrupulously kept her from his shop 
and despised her, grudging her her food. This course of 
action was more dangerous with her than with the 
ordinary run of women. As a girl she had dreamed of 
the intoxication of life. As a school-girl in Edinburgh 
she and other girls used to whisper with heads together 
about young men, and smuggled doubtful books into 
their rooms. Sappho had gone from hand to hand. 


186 


GILLESPIE 


They had witnessed it at the theatre, and had confessed 
disappointment with the presentation. This intoxica- 
tion in life was denied her. She had long, idle dreams, 
and taking whisky at Eoghan’s birth as medicine, grew 
fond of it. Gillespie was too much engrossed in the 
theory and practice of commerce to hold out to this 
passionate nature even crumbs. Rapidly they drove 
apart, each on a different gale of desire. Such a Sunday 
bickering was an angry signalling, as each drifted from 
the other, to seek out the satisfaction which life had to 
offer. 

Gillespie passed through the kitchen with a flushed 
face, and descended the outside stone stair. Topsail 
heard him tramping along the back passage to the shop. 
He carried the sweets in his left hand. She scurried into 
the parlour. Her mistress was aimlessly turning over 
the boards of the album on the table. 

“ I met Mrs. Galbraith cornin’ from church ” — her 
mistress looked up, smiling faintly — “ she’s axed ye to tea 
the morn’s nicht at six o’clock.” 

Her mistress made no response. 

“ Ay,” urged Topsail, her white teeth flashing in a 
grin. 

“ I wonder if she’ll have any sweeties,” her mistress 
said, musingly. 

“ Ach, sweeties ! ” Topsail blew contemptuously. “ I 
told her she’s better hae a wee drap in.” 


CHAPTER VII 


But if his wife understood his greed, Brieston held 
Gillespie to be a rising man. The Banker, for reasons of 
his own, introduced him at supper parties to men of stand- 
ing in the town. At one of these parties the question of 
the Poor Law Clerkship was discussed. It was vacant. 
No one was surprised when Gillespie received the appoint- 
ment. It carried with it the post of Sub-collector of 
Taxes. “ He’s gettin’ a big man,” said Brieston with 
pride. He had a fair face and an obliging way with 
every one. 

“ Ay,” said the Butler; “it’s the like o’ McAskill, a 
limb of the law, that speaks well o’ him. It doesna do 
for corbies to pike oot corbies’ een,” and added with a 
sneer, “ Souple Gillespie.” The name stuck to him. 
“ Souple Gillespie ! I’m filled with nausea every time I 
see the cormorant.” 

Dr. Maclean, to whom he spoke, was a fair-minded 
man. 

“ He has business capacity : his thrift is never done.” 

“ Bah ! ” cried the Butler, “ you don’t know him ; if 
every man in the place stuck a knife into him he wouldn’t 
bleed.” 

But the fact is that the town looked on Gillespie as a 
public benefactor. Lucky had a good word for him at 
the Pump. 

“ He’s fnekin’ a fortune oot o’ kippered saithe. Ee 
noo in slack times he’ll buy a box for a trifle an’ sell them 
at two a penny smocked, or a dozen for sixpence. They’re 
tasty fried wi’ dreepin’. Mind you it’s no’ every sixpence 

187 


188 


GILLESPIE 


worth that ’ill go roond a family. I’m telt he s sellin a 
pound’s worth every day.” 

A benefactor indeed. Think of his plan of making 
one pound of butter into two. 44 All milk an’ butter; 
no margareen aboot this.” Think of how he cut out the 
smaller shopkeepers. If the men bought an ounce of 
tobacco and two boxes of matches he threw in a coarse 
clay pipe. Soon he had the tobacco trade of the fishing 
fleet. Oh ! there was nothing in tobacco. But gradually 
he came to supply stores to the fleet. And what a way 
he had. On Monday mornings, when victualling the fleet, 
he would force ham and cheese upon the men. 

“ We hevna been in the habit o’ eatin’ ham at the 
fishin’.” 

44 Just that,” he answered. 44 Ye’d raither go to 
Brodie’s wi’ the money. Is ham no’ better for ye than 
a pint o’ raw grain wi’ a touch o’ pepper an’ a drap o’ 
saut watter in’t ? It’s a wonder the tubes is no’ burned 
oot o’ ye. You try a pun’ o’ ham an’ ye’ll mand a dreg 
o’ herrin’ better the nicht. Good luck to ye, boys.” 
As for payment he would humorously order the men 
out of the shop on the Saturday of a poor week’s fishing. 

44 Hoots ! boys ! wait till ye hae a bundle o’ notes.” 
The money earned during the week was shared among 
the crews on a Saturday afternoon in the rooms of the 
public-houses. A share was laid aside for stores. Two 
men of the crew were delegated as paymasters. If it 
was a good week, when anything up to £200 fell to be 
shared among the eight men of the two 44 company ” 
boats, Gillespie would turn up his books. He made up 
no detailed account. 

44 That will be four poun’ ten shullin’s, boys,” or, 44 It’ll 
run to seeven poun’ fifteen shullin’s.” 

The money was tabled ; no receipt was asked or given ; 
the men never knew when they were 44 clear.” All they 


GILLESPIE 


189 


knew was — and it was a prideful boast at the “ Shipping 
Box ” — that “ on the Setterday o’ a big fishin’ Gillespie 
has a spale-basket behind the coonter to hold the pound 
notes.” It was very far yet to the time when the common 
taunt was hurled at him. “ It was the fishermen that 
made ye an’ fed ye.” 

They had been a race of seafarers, father and son, 
since the town had had a name; in olden days trading 
salt herring with the smacks of France for cognac and 
silk. They were born to the sea — fishermen with shares 
in a boat or owning boats and gear — big boats too; 
smacks which sailed the western seas from the Mull of 
Cantyre to Stornoway. 

From time immemorial they had used the drift-net : 
but while he was in Muirhead Gillespie saw that the day 
of the trawl-net was coming. It was the transition 
period. Government declared trawling to be illegal, 
and sent a cruiser to patrol the Loch. The Brieston men 
were the chief culprits. Drift-net work was tedious. 
They had to hang by the drift-net all night and “ shot it ” 
on the chance of getting herring. With the trawl-net 
it was different. They watched for signs of fish. The 
single “ plout ” of a herring would sometimes reveal a 
whole school of fish, and at once the trawl was out be- 
tween the two “ company ” boats, and in again within 
two hours with sufficient fish in the bag of the net to 
fill half-a-dozen boats. The “ fry ” of the herring — the 
bubbles which they put up — was another sign; or when 
they rose to the surface to “ play ” ; or the diving of solan 
geese; or in late summer and autumn the 4 £ stroke ” 
of the herring in the water, that is, the trail of flame 
which it made when darting through the phosphorescent 
sea. A common practice on these occasions, on moonless 
autumnal nights, was to strike the anchor on the bow 
head as the skiff sailed along, and startle the fish, which 


190 


GILLESPIE 


darted away trailing fire. On such nights this loud 
noise of “ crepping the anchors ” could be heard over all 
the fleet. 

But whatever the signs of fish were, anything up to two 
hundred boxes at a pound sterling a box might be had 
within a couple of hours. Not infrequently the Fishery 
Cruiser caught them in the act. The trawl was cut away 
and sunk. But what was a trawl, when one lucky “ shot ” 
would bring them the price of half-a-dozen trawls ? Was 
Gillespie not a benefactor ? He supplied the trawls. It 
was only in reason, as the men were bound to recognise, 
that he raised the price of trawl-nets gradually — £35, 
£40, £45, £50. Look at the risk he was taking. He was 
liable to fine and imprisonment like themselves at Ard- 
markie. He sympathised with them on the loss of their 
nets. It was a shame that the officers and men of the 
cruiser were allowed with impunity to search the houses 
for trawl-nets — and on a Sunday, too, when the men were 
at church. Peggy More was arrested for attacking one 
of them with a stool. Yes ; he had heard that she had 
given birth to a child in jail. It was horrible. But 
never give in, boys. The time of free trawling was 
coming. No one seemed to suspect that the Government 
men had accurate knowledge of the houses and lofts 
which concealed trawl-nets. It was impossible that an 
informer could live in Brieston — not even Gillespie had 
the taint of suspicion, even though he profited by the 
sales of trawl-nets. It is true that he was seen walking 
above the “ Ghost ” with a telescope in his hand, but that 
was only to see if there were any boats about with herring. 
For now there was no question whatever about Gillespie 
being a grand benefactor. He had turned herring buyer 
in a dramatic fashion. His had been a superb action. 
He saved hundreds of pounds worth of fish from destruc- 
tion, and mounted to the zenith of popularity. 


CHAPTER VIII 


In foul and fair weather Gillespie walked the wharves 
and quays, and nosing about among herring-boxes and 
fish-guts, would ask the fishermen and smacksmen news 
of the fishing. This was accounted to him for sociability. 
He entered into the interests of their trade and knew the 
baffling tides of their fortune, and picked up information, 
carelessly noting everything of importance that fell. 

Especially he watched the methods of the herring 
buyers. These were two. Either out on the Loch in 
smacks which, when a full cargo was taken aboard, set 
sail for Glasgow. If there was no prospect of wind they 
offered a low price for the herring because of the risk of 
transport. On Saturday mornings the smacksmen re- 
fused to buy at all. Other buyers waited on the quays 
to which those fishermen came who found no market 
among the smacks. On the days of a “ big fishing ” the 
fishermen had sometimes to throw whole skiff -loads into 
the Harbour for want of a market. 

The Quay buyers were meagre men. They rarely 
risked more than twenty boxes, which they sent to 
Glasgow by luggage steamer; other trifling boxes they 
bought on commission for merchants in Rothesay, Dunoon, 
and Helensburgh. Gillespie was soon master of their 
methods. He noticed they were a fraternity. If one of 
them happened to be a little earlier on the Quay than the 
others he bought up the fish — to share them later on with 
the slug-a-beds. Gillespie pointed out to the fishermen 
this heinous lack of competition. 

191 


192 


GILLESPIE 


He studied the flow and ebb of the Glasgow Fish 
Market, and keenly watched the Baltic ports as a haven 
for salt herring. He discovered that Manchester and 
Liverpool would take unlimited supplies of fresh herring 
packed in ice. And he waited patiently. No one knew 
that he had leased from the Laird the long row of stores 
and curing-sheds stretching along the shore road from 
the Quay. On a J une morning of perfect calm, when ducks 
were swimming about in the Harbour, a skiff was seen 
coming in at the Perch, deep to the gunwales. The men 
on the beams were sitting on herring as they rowed. She 
was followed by a second, a third, a fourth, and a fifth, 
under clouds of gulls. The smacksmen had refused 
to buy. The half-dozen buyers on the Quay were in a 
flutter, running about like hens, sharing their empty 
stock. They bought some seventy boxes between them. 
There yet remained four and a half boats of herring. The 
fishermen were now offering these at any price — instead 
of being offered; at five shillings a box, four shillings, 
three, two, one. Standing on the Quay and looking down 
upon these fishermen in their loaded boats, one caught a 
look of pathos upon their rugged faces, tawny with sweat 
threshed out of them in a fifteen-mile pull in the teeth of 
the tide. Their tired eyes were grey like the sea, their 
blue shirts with short oilskin sleeves were laced with 
herring scales ; and herring scales smeared the big fishing 
boots which come up over the knee; their hands were 
slippery with herring spawn ; even their beards and pipes 
were whitened. Everywhere a flood of light poured 
down. It stiffened and blackened the blood of the bruised 
fish, and the heat brought up that tang of fish and that 
savour of brine which have almost an edge of pain, so 
sharp, haunting, and fascinating are they in the nostrils 
of men who have been bred as fishers and have lived upon 
the salt water. The spectacle was compelling in its 


GILLESPIE 


193 


beauty, in its suggestion of prodigal seas and of the tire- 
less industry and cunning craft of man ; and at the same 
time sad with the irony of circumstance — niggard dealers 
haggling, shuffling, sniffing in the background. The 
dotard buyers shook their heads, though their mouths 
watered. They could not cope with one hundredth part 
of the fish. It was too early in the season for curing. 
Besides, they had no empty stock. One of them, in 
slippers, with a narrow face and rheumy eyes, gave a 
doleful shake of his head. “ No use, boys. It’s the big 
market for them.” The “ big market ” was the sea. 
What a heartbreaking task was there — to basket all 
these fish into the sea. These fishermen had laboured 
all the night and toiled home through the long, blazing 
morning. The fish were worth ten shillings a box in 
Glasgow. To basket herring up on the Quay and into 
the boxes — the music of chinking gold was in it; but 
into the Harbour — how green and still it was — that was 
hell. 

A deep silence fell down the length of the Quay. One 
by one the fishermen, with dumb faces, sat down on the 
gunwales, the oars, or the beams, eyeing the load of fish. 
An old man seated on the stern beam of the second boat 
lifted a massive head slowly and took off his round 
bonnet. He seemed to be invoking Heaven. As they 
had come homewards in the break of day to the sweep 
of the oars, he was given the tiller, being too old for that 
long pull. As he leaned upon the tiller he had dreamed 
in the somnolent morning of the spending of money. 
The sun glanced and shone on his round, bald head. The 
streaks of grey hair were smeared with herring scales. 
He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it hope- 
lessly in acquiescence of Fate. The frustrate words were 
more eloquent of despair than any rhetoric. Some one 
forward said “ Ay ! ay ! ” and sighed deeply. The old 
o 


194 


GILLESPIE 


man bent and lifted a herring. He held it a moment 
aloft in the glittering sunlight; then tossed it into the 
sea. It fell with a plout which seemed to crash in through 
the tremendous silence. Every eye followed it, wriggling 
down to the bottom. The old man nodded to the crews. 

“Gull’s meat, boys! gull’s meat;” and he collapsed 
in the stern beam, huddled up, a piteous, forlorn wisp, 
stupidly nursing the old rusty round bonnet in his hands. 
An air of profound sorrow hung over the boat. She 
seemed chained in white, gleaming manacles. It was not 
precious food that was aboard any longer but ballast. 

The uneasy shuffling of men’s feet on the causewayed 
Quay — all the idlers of the town had assembled — was now 
the only sound which broke the silence. In the clean 
face of bountiful heaven it was an indecency, a crime, 
to cast that bulk of food back to the sea, which lay with 
the patience and the sombre expectation of the grave on 
its sparkling face. 

“ Sanny, my man, hold up your pow.” The words 
were spoken in a quiet penetrating voice. As if he were 
a child on a bench at school, the old man lifted his bowed 
head and looked into a red, jolly face. Every eye was 
turned with Sandy’s upon Gillespie, who stood alone, 
leaning against the head pile of the Quay, with his baffling 
whimsical gaze steady on the old man’s face. 

“ Ye’ve had a touch, Sanny.” We call a real big haul 
“ a touch.” 

“ Ay ! Gillespa’, a bonny touch, tae feed the gulls.” 

Gillespie was broadly laughing without making any 
audible sound. 

“ That’s no’ work for a man that has been fifty years 
at the fishin’, Sanny.” Every one present had pricked 
ears. A subtle change had come into the atmosphere. 
It was indescribably charged with hope. The old man 


GILLESPIE 


195 


lifted up his bonnet and put it on his head. It was an 
act partly of reverence, partly signalising that a crisis 
had been past. 

“ Boys ” — Gillespie’s quick gaze swept round the boats 
and his voice rang out cheerily — 4 4 I’ll buy the five boats 
at a shilling a box.” An uneasy silence fell down the 
Quay. Men glanced at one another, and then stole an 
amazed look at Gillespie. A voice, like the crack of a 
whip on the still air, rang out from one of the boats. 
“ By Goad, but you’re a man.” 

Andrew Rodgers padded softly in his slippers up to 
Gillespie, his slit eyes blinking as if he had arisen from 
sleep. He came of a race of fish-men. His father had 
cadged herring through Bute, buying them in a little lug- 
sail. He was tacitly recognised as chief of the coterie 
of buyers, all of whom deferred to him. He lived in a 
house overlooking the Quay, and was accustomed to have 
the fishermen wait on him. They awakened him in the 
early morning by throwing mud and chuckies on his 
window-pane. He knew that Gillespie had “ a big thing ” 
in the stuff, but where was his empty stock ? Besides, 
it was impossible to get the fish to Glasgow that day. The 
luggage steamer was gone. The next day at evening was 
the soonest the fish could reach the city. The market 
would then be closed. The stuff would have to lie on the 
Broomielaw till the following day. Three whole days, and 
in this heat. The bellies would be out of the fish. He 
smiled up in Gillespie’s face sardonically. 

“ Fine, man, fine ; is it manure for Muirhead ye’re 
buyin’ ? ” As he looked down on the shimmering bulk of 
fish his face was contorted with a spasm of hatred. He, 
the best buyer on the Quay, not so much as asked by 
your leave. The other buyers, the idlers, and fishermen 
looked on at the duel. Gillespie from his broad jovial 
height purred down on the acidulous little man. 


196 


GILLESPIE 


“ Hoots ! Andy, I've gien ower the fermin’ : I’m goin’ 
to try my hand at the buyin’.” 

“Ye’d better go to the school first an’ learn a wee.” 

“ I’ve bocht them at a shullin’. Can you buy them 
chaper ? ” A roar of laughter went up from the Quay. 
Gillespie, still smiling, said, “I’ll stan’ doon an’ gie ye a 
chance yet, Andy.” 

“ I winna tek’ the damn lot at fivepence.” 

“ No, man.” 

The withering words stung. 

“Ye should learn to buy fish afore ye leave the back 
o’ the coonter. Ye’ll come doon heavily on this,” 
snapped Andy. 

The other buyers felt this was a just warning. The 
man was a fool to take all that perishable stuff on his 
hands. 

“ Andy, my man ” — Gillespie spoke as if chiding a 
fractious child — “they’re gran’ herrin’, are they no ? 
worth half-a-soavrin’ the box.” 

Andy’s inane laugh cackled loudly over the Quay. 

“ Half-a-soavrin’ ! ” The idea spurted out ribald 
laughter. He shuffled about in his slippers. “ Up wi’ your 
herrin’, boys; Gillespie’s goin’ to fill them in sweetie 
boxes.” All the buyers wheezed with foolish mirth; 
but old Sandy stood up in the stern with flashing eyes and 
whipped the carved tiller from the rudder head. 

“ If I was as near ye, Andy, as I’m far from ye, I’d mek’ 
e feel the wecht o’ this.” He swung the tiller about his 
head. “ Gillespa’s bocht the fish. That’s more than 
ye could do, ye louse. Ye hevna the he’rt o’ a pooked 
dooker.” 

In the midst of the laughter Andy roared : 

“ Away up to the shop in the Square, Sandy, an’ cairry 
doon the sweetie boxes.” 

Gillespie laid a hand on his shoulder. “ Come wi’ me, 


GILLESPIE 


197 


Andy, an’ I’ll show ye my sweetie boxes.” He turned 
to the boats, “ You Ned, an’ you Polly, an’ you, an’ you,” 
— he pointed with his forefinger to the young men of the 
crews — “ come an’ cairry doon the sweetie boxes.” 

All the Quay and half the crews babbling followed 
Gillespie. He turned to the left, passed along the dike 
of the Square, above the Quay, stopped at the first of the 
doors in the long line of sheds and stores belonging to the 
Laird, and took a key out of his pocket. 

“ Are they your stores ? ” snapped Andy. 

Gillespie nodded. 

“ Well, I’m damned, boys ; an’ never a word aboot it.” 

“ This key’s a wee roosty,” answered Gillespie, and 
turning it gratingly pushed open with knee and hand 
the big red door. From ceiling to floor the store was 
packed with splinder-new herring barrels and boxes, tier 
upon tier. Quietly, unassumingly, Gillespie had had a 
score or so of these boxes and barrels brought down to 
him from Glasgow in every gabbart and puffer which had 
borne coal for his ree. The surprise of the rented stores 
was nothing to this. 

“ Goad, boys,” some one in the background shouted, 
“ Gillespa’ hes a forest o’ barrels.” 

The crowd surged forward, peering at the miracle. 
Gillespie had forgotten Andy. That cheap sort of 
triumph had no appeal for him. 

“ Now, boys ! now, boys ! ” he cried briskly, rubbing 
his hands ; “ doon wi’ the boxes to the Quay. I’m in a 
hurry.” 

Andy was athirst. “ Where in the name o’ Goad did 
ye steal the barrels ? ” 

Gillespie shouldered past him. “ Dae ye no’ see I’m 
thrang, man ? ” — his tone was faintly irascible. “ The bit 
sweetie boxes cam’ frae the shop ” ; and with a jerk of 
his hand he brought the first tier of barrels to the floor. 


198 


GILLESPIE 


4 4 Hurry now, boys; I must catch the market.” He 
kicked a barrel to the door. There was an air of capacity 
and mastery about the man. 

44 Hell likely hae a steamer in the other store.” Andy’s 
very eyes rolled with irony. 

44 When the herrin’s filled I’ll show ye the steamer. 
An’ noo, Andy, ye’ll hae to stan’ aside. Ye’re wastin’ 
time ; ” and gently but firmly he shoved the waspish 
man from the doorway. Old Sandy suddenly stepped 
forward and took Andy’s place. The shadow of the 
boxes darkened his wizened countenance. He held up 
his hand. 44 Wan meenut, boys.” Gillespie straightened 
his back. 

44 Are ye goin’ in for the buyin’, Gillespa’ ? ” 

Gillespie nodded impatiently. 

44 Boys ! I’ve been a fisherman a’ my days ; an’ no for 
fifty strucken years hae I seen what I saw the day. Thae 
men” — his condemning eyes swept over the buyers — 
44 wad hae left us on oor backside. Never a tail that I 
fish will I sell to ony man noo but Gillespa’ Strang as long’s 
God leaves braith in my body.” He smacked his palm 
with his clenched hand. 

44 Hear ! hear ! Hurrah ! hurrah ! ” 

From that moment Gillespie was the man of the fleet. 
The deep -throated hurrahing was the knell of the buyers. 
Some one in the crowd began to boo. 44 Way there, 
boys ! ” Gillespie appeared shouldering one of his brand- 
new boxes, followed by one of the crew with one box on 
his shoulder and trailing another by its bicket. 


CHAPTER IX 


The idle buyers lined the “ Shipping Box ” at the Quay, 
watching dourly as box after box was filled from the 
teeming cran baskets. The Quay rang under the iron- 
heeled sea-boots, stamping under the weight of the 
baskets. Gillespie, Sandy the Fox, and Jeck the Traiveller 
stood by the boxes. At midday three of the boats were 
discharged and had gone to anchor. Gillespie held a 
brief consultation with the fishermen, who ceased filling 
the boxes. 

“ By Goad ! ” whispered Andy, “ he’s fed up.” 

“ I’m no sae sure o’ that,” said Queebec, a fiery- 
faced buyer, and discerner of men, who in his youth had 
made a voyage to Quebec. He was discovering in himself 
a certain respect for Gillespie. They left the “ Shipping 
Box” and joined the circle about Gillespie, who nodded 
cheerily to them. “ Hot work this, boys,” and went on 
speaking to the fishermen. “ Ye understan’ I’ll send ye 
doon a gallon o’ beer an’ biscuits an’ cheese.” 

“ Did ye hear thon ? ” Andy whispered behind his 
hand; “ beer an’ cheese.” The thing was unheard of. 

“ Right 0 ! ” cried young Polly ; “ we’re your men every 
day.” Above the Quay and adjacent to the stores was 
a large oblong Square, surrounded on three sides by a 
four-foot dike. The fourth side was partly built in with 
the dike, but a space was left to approach it from the 
Quay by a flight of three broad steps. Sandy the Fox, 
who had been hastily summoned from the coal-ree, 
entered the store, along with three fishermen. They 

199 


200 


GILLESPIE 


reappeared each at the corner of a huge tarpaulin, which 
they dragged into and spread out in the Square. 

“ He’s rented the Square as weel frae the Laird,” said 
Tamar Lusk, an active, bent, bow-legged man, who 
combined the buying of a meagre box of herring with 
the selling of ice-cream, vegetables, and newspapers. 
“ There’s nothin’ ye can teach Gillespie.” He meant 
to sting Andy, whom he hated with years of herring- 
buying hatred, because Andy cheated him like a fox. 
Andy, however, was too petrified to feel the jibe, and 
Tamar lunged again. 

“ Gillespie’s the boy ; he’ll sweep us a’ off the Quay in 
wan whup.” 

“ The waff o’ a newspaper ’ill sweep you off, ye 
bloomin’ Eyetalian. What’s the salt for, Ned ? ” he 
wheeled on a fisherman who was rolling a heavy, grind- 
ing barrel, its new wood tarnished with mud. The 
fisherman straightened his back, took out his clay from 
the top waistcoat pocket, and borrowed a match from 
Andy. He was a tall man, slow of speech, with a grave 
eye. 

“ Gillespie’s goin’ tae show you boys how to work wi’ 
herrin’ ” — there was an accent of pity in his voice — “ he’s 
for roilin’ them in salt.” 

“ In salt ! where did he get the salt ? ” 

The grey eye smiled. “ In the sweetie boxes behind 
the coonter,” and was on its way again behind a puff of 
smoke. 

Cran basket after cran basket was carried up the stone 
steps and poured on the tarpaulin. Gillespie and Sandy 
the Fox stood, each at one end of the growing pile, with 
a shallow tin plate in his left hand, with which he scooped 
up salt from a barrel, drew his right hand across the salt, 
and hailed it down on the fresh fish, as a sower sows 
seed. The Square was full of the tinkling sound of the 


GILLESPIE 


201 


falling salt. Jeck the Traiveller sat on an upturned 
herring box, and as every cran was emptied on the pile, 
the fishermen shouted “ Tally ! ” “ Tally oh ! ” answered 

Jeck, and dropped a herring into a small basket. In this 
way the count of the crans was kept. 

Another of the boats was discharged. The fishermen, 
wet with sweat, drank their beer and ate their biscuits 
and cheese. They had never been fed before in dis- 
charging fish, and the last bolt in the doors of their heart 
was drawn. Andy had been whispering, “ No wonder he 
was keen on your stuff at a shillin’ a box wi’ a’ that stock. 
Catch him biddin’ when they were at five shillin’s.” 

For all that the fishermen esteemed Gillespie as a man 
of bowels, who had plucked their fish from the “ big 
market.” And where was his own market? And now 
beer and cheese. He was their comrade, the fisherman’s 
friend. 

“ I hope to Goad,” cried old Sandy, as he drew the back 
of his hand across his mouth, “ he’ll get a pound a box. 
He’s the best man in Brieston that Goad ever put braith 
intae.” 

Work was begun again and the second boat discharged. 
The salted pile of fish gleamed high in the Square. Barrels 
were rolled from the store, and filled with shovels from 
the pile. Andy, putting on a supercilious face, went up 
the stairs leisurely, meaning to pick a sure bone at his 
ease. “ Hey, Gillespa’ ! I thought ye were in a hurry ? ” 

“ A mile a meenut’s the speed,” came back the genial 
answer. 

“ Weel, I never saw herrin’ roiled that wy before.” 

" No ? ” 

“ The wy it used tae be done was to fill the barrels, 
an’ salt the herrin’ as they were goin’ frae the cran 
basket tae the barrel. Ye’ve been gien’ yersel’ double 
labour.” 


202 


GILLESPIE 


“Ye micht hae told me earlier,” said Gillespie un- 
abashed. 

“ Oh ! ye think ye ken everything ; I just let ye hev’ 
your own wy.” 

“ Weel ! weel ! a’ that, Andy. I’ll tell you something 
my faither’s faither learned doon by the heids o’ Ayr : aye 
roil them first ootside the barrels.” 

“ Ay,” came the sarcastic rejoinder. 

“Ye see, Andy, when ye roil them in the barrels they 
sink terrible wi’ the shakin’ o’ the steamers an’ the trains, 
an’ when they reach the mercat it’s no’ a fu’ barrel ye’re 
offerin’. The fish-merchants lik’ a fu’ barrel. An’ the 
herrin’ keep their bellies better this wy; but you’ll ken 
best, Andy.” 

He was not only buying herring : he was teaching 
them something new about their business. 

“ Ye’ll hae tae get up early in the morn wi’ tackets in 
your boots afore ye get to windward o’ Gillespie,” wheezed 
the asthmatic Queebec. 

“ Ay ! he’s no a scone o’ yesterday’s bakin’,” Tamar 
Lusk gloated. 

As each barrel was filled Gillespie covered it with 
a top of canvas cloth, nailing the cloth round with 
tacks. 

“ He can cooper as weel : I’ll never leave the ice-cream 
shop again ; ” but Andy cursed Tamar for a fool. 

The whitened tarpaulin lay empty in the sun; and 
the men, finishing their beer and cheese, eyed the three 
hundred odd barrels of fish — proud of their labour — and 
discussed the new order. On every one’s tongue was a 
word of commendation or friendship for Gillespie. His 
action was heroic. He had stood gallantly in the breach 
of the sea. 

“ Does the damn fool think roiled herrin’ ’ill keep in 
this weather ? ” Andy had again found a platform in 


GILLESPIE 


203 


Gillespie’s inability to dispose of the fish — “ An’ what o’ 
the fresh herrin’ in the boxes ? ” he asked. “ Manure ! 
fair manure ! they’ll be stinkin’ afore they get to the 
mercat.” 

“ It’s you has the black he’rt, Andy,” roared old Sandy. 
“ It’s time your day was done on the Quay. Goad be 
thankit, there’s wan man that can buy fish, mercat or no 
mercat.” 

Precisely at that moment that one man was handing 
two telegrams across the counter of the Post Office — one 
to a Manchester firm, which ran : “ Sending 330 barrels 
large herrings in salt.” The other was to a merchant 
in the Glasgow Fish Market. “ Sending 645 boxes large 
herrings by special steamer ; arrive night.” The Glasgow 
Fish Market would be closed before the hour of arrival, 
but early the following morning, Gillespie knew, a long 
line of lorries would be on the Broomielaw ; the lumpers 
would be waiting. Gillespie’s herring would be first in 
the market next day ; at nine o’clock sharp the auctioneer 
would have them under his hammer, while the herring 
smacks would only be trailing round the Garroch Heads, 
six hours from market. Gillespie would have the market 
to himself. 

“ Manure ! fair manure ; he’ll be fined for bringin’ 
refuse into Glesca,” sniped Andy. 

“ Weel, Andy, I was never so puzzled since the day 
I saw white poirpoises off Newfoundland.” Queebec 
scratched his pow solemnly. At the old Quay, used for 
discharging coal, some four hundred yards further in the 
Harbour, lay a puffer, which had brought a cargo from 
Ardrossan for Gillespie’s ree. 

“ Are ye discharged ? ” Gillespie asked a black- 
bearded man who was drying his hairy arms in a rough 
towel. 


204 


GILLESPIE 


“ Naethin’ left but fleas,” was the succinct answer. 

Gillespie lightly swung himself aboard forward. 

“ Where are ye for ? ” 

“ The Port.” 

“ Goin’ back light ? ” 

The bearded man freed his face from the towel. 

“ As licht,” he answered, u as a pauper’s belly.” 

“ I’ll gie ye some ballast as far’s the Broomielaw.” 

The bearded man’s eyes twinkled. “ Deid cats ? ” he 
inquired. 

“ Deid herrin’. Will ye mek’ a run for me to Glesca ? ” 

“ Lik’ hey-my-nanny,” said the master mariner, 
becoming alert. 

£ 4 Ye’d be burnin’ your coal ony wy ” — Gillespie was 
meditative — “ You’ll be gled o’ the price o’ the coal.” 

“ I winna objec’.” 

“ Twenty pound for the run.” 

The bearded man pulled a solemn face, though secretly 
he was glad of the found money. “ Ye were goin’ back 
licht,” and, Gillespie added significantly, “I’ll soon be 
wantin’ another cargo o’ coal if this fishin’ continues.” 

“ Streitch it to twenty-five.” 

Gillespie made a rapid calculation. For the number 
of boxes and barrels twenty-five pounds worked out at 
sixpence a package. The freight by luggage steamer was 
three shillings. He laid his hand on the jocose mariner’s 
arm, and sucked in his breath. “ You an’ me ’ill no’ 
quarrel ower a five-pun’ note. I’ll mak’ it twenty-five 
pounds if ye drive her an’ get up the night.” 

“ I’ll can do’t in seeven ’oors, nate ; the sewin’ machine’s 
in good order ” ; he jerked his thumb towards the engines. 

“ Get her doon to the Quay then ; I’ll get the fishermen 
to gie ye a hand wi’ the stuff.” 

“ Hae ye many ? ” 

“ Oh ! a pickle, a pickle,” cried Gillespie as he mounted 


GILLESPIE 


205 


the breast wall. He appeared in the Square with a large 
pile of labels, a box of tacks, and a hammer, and briskly 
instructed the fishermen to roll the barrels on to the 
Quay. 

“Rowl them ower the Quay heid,” shouted Andy, 
derisively ; “ it’ll save them frae the dung-heap in 
Glesca.” 

Gillespie, who was standing beside the first barrel, 
imperturbably beckoned Andy with the hammer. 

“ Step ower, Andy, an’ ye’ll see their desteenation.” 

Gillespie tacked a large red label on the side of the 
barrel. The name and address of a fish salesman in 
Manchester was printed on the card in large, black type. 
He handed a label to Andy. 

“ It’s a wee further than Glesca, Andy.” 

Andy flung the label in the mud, spat, and stamped 
on it. 

“ Dinna be sae wastefu’ o’ guid gear, Andy,” said 
Gillespie, his mouth full of tacks ; “ I had to pay postage 
on thae labels a’ the wy frae Manchester.” Nimbly he 
went from barrel to barrel tacking on the labels. In 
the midst of this work a puffer came steaming down the 
Harbour. An ordinary sight, scarcely noticed. Suddenly 
a stentorian voice rang across the water. “ The Quay 
ahoy ! catch this line.” 

It was a common thing for such craft to put in at 
the Quay for oil or stores. No one surmised, and the 
puffer was warped up. Gillespie appeared with a bundle 
of slings from the store of the luggage steamer, which lay 
behind the “ Shipping Box.” The coal bucket of the puffer 
was unhooked from the end of the chain, and steam 
turned on the winch. 

“Goad! but he’s chartered the puffer” — Queebec 
danced in excitement from one leg to the other — “ He’s 
fair bate us. I kent he’d something up his sleeve; he 


206 


GILLESPIE 


was that quate an’ smilin’.” The thing was so astonish- 
ing, so tremendous to these men who never bought more 
than twenty or thirty boxes at a time, that they could 
only stare in silence. To have a store crammed with 
stock ; to have unlimited barrels of salt and have rented 
the Square — all that was nothing ; but to have chartered 
a steamer ! A dim conception of the bigness of this man 
and of his audacity began to impregnate their minds. 
He seemed no more than a boy, with his jovial red face 
and lithe swinging walk ; yet he caused their trafficking 
in fish to appear to them a piece of shy, dawdling in- 
efficiency. This man in one morning suddenly became 
gigantic, and these sparrows of Dothan saw that their 
day of hopping on the Quay was done. There was nothing 
to do but to retire from the shadow of an eagle. 

“ He’ll hae the first o’ the market the morn,” wheezed 
Queebec, who in a dull way felt angry with Andy. 

“ Boys-a-boys, but he’ll hev’ the haul.” The ice-cream 
vendor’s mouth fairly watered. 

“ Every barrel ’ill be a pound in Manchester,” cried 
Queebec. 

The stem of Andy’s pipe snapped between his teeth. 
He spat out the fragment and walking across the Quay 
accosted the black-bearded mariner. 

4 4 Where are ye goin’ ? ” he asked bluntly. 

44 Yattin’.” 

The witticism stung Andy. 

44 Ye damn big fool ; ye’ll no’ get the price o’ paint 
for your rotten funnel oot o’ Gillespa’.” The black- 
bearded man, who had a wad of notes in his hand — the 
freight on the coal and the herring just paid by Gillespie 
— estimated Andy. A guffaw over at the 44 Shipping Box ” 
caused a surge of dark-red blood to swamp his face ; his 
bull-dog neck began to swell; his dark eyes to blaze 
beneath their bushy eyebrows. 


GILLESPIE 


207 


“ Ca’ me a damn fool, div ye ? me, Jock Borlan’ o’ 
Go van. I’ll salt your whisker for ye an’ tek’ it to Glesca 
in a barrel for pickle pork, ye swine. See that ” — he held 
up the wad of notes — “ a bit praisint frae Gillespie Strang 
to my wife, by Jing ! ” Backhanded he swung the wad 
hard across Andy’s cheek. 

“That’s Jock Borlan’s wy, by Jing!” 

Andy danced in front of him, screaming with rage. 

“ Get oot o’ my way” — the mariner threatened Andy 
with the wad — “ Wur ye ever at the thaieter ? Whaur 
are ye for, div ye say ? I’m for the Langlands Road tae 
tak’ my wife to the thaieter the nicht.” He walked 
ponderously down upon Andy, stamping at the slippered 
toes. 

Andy leapt back, rubbing his cheek and screaming, “ I’ll 
pey ye, ye big Glesca keelie. I’ll pey ye back for this.” 

“ Ye’ll never pey like Gillespie Strang,” cried the 
bearded man, jocose again. “ Gillespie Strang’s pey” — 
he tapped the wad with a thick forefinger — “ My wife an’ 
me’s gaun to the thaieter the nicht, by Jing ! ” 

The eager song of the winch clanked over the Quay 
as tier after tier of the boxes was being slung aboard. At 
the same time the barrels were being rolled in on two 
planks. In an hour and a half the puffer cleared, the 
black-bearded sailorman roaring an invitation to Andy : 
“ Ir ye cornin’ to the thaieter the nicht ? ” 

Punctually to the minute at noon on Saturday Gillespie 
paid the fishermen in his shop. 

“ That’s better than the big market, Sanny.” 

“ Ay ! you bate, Gillespa’ : a full hairbour wad be a 
toom stomach for some o’ us.” 

“ Weel, boys,” he said briskly, rubbing his hands; “ I 
hope I’ll pay ye ten times as much next Setterday.” In 
this way Gillespie announced that buying would be a 
permanent part of his business. He retired to his back- 


208 


GILLESPIE 


shop and, seated at an aged black mahogany desk full of 
pigeon holes, made up his “returns” : 



£ 

s. 

d . 

1020 boxes 

. 51 

0 

0 

Freight Glasgow 

. 25 

0 

0 

„ Liverpool 

. 39 

16 

3 

Salt .... 

5 

0 

0 

Total 

. 120 

16 

3 


His eyes had a profound look of regret. The Manchester 
herring had been a test and a risk, but fortunately the 
weather had been foul on the English coast. He had 
had a telegram from Manchester — twenty-two shillings a 
barrel. Yes ! his eyes had a profound look of regret. He 
ought to have sent all the stuff to the English market — 
only it was a risk. He made his entry carefully : 

£ s. d. 

330 barrels @ 22<s. . . . 363 0 0 

645 boxes @ 12s. 6 d. . . 403 2 6 

Balance £645 6s. 3 d. 

He chewed the end of the pen. 

“ Nane sae ill for a green hand; ” he nodded, wiped 
the pen, put it behind his ear, carefully put the ledger 
away, and passed into the front shop, whistling softly 
between his teeth. He put a sweet in his mouth, passed 
to the door, and stood regarding the herring fleet, supine 
in the calm over their anchors. He had prestige. He 
had bowels of sympathy. He was the man of the town. 


CHAPTER X 


Gillespie’s coal-ree was large and flourishing ; his places 
stored from cellar to roof. He bought up all the old 
iron in Brieston and the adjacent country, and had 
Sandy the Fox on the road with a pony and cart two days 
in the week collecting rags, hides, sheep-skins, rabbit- 
skins. “ See an’ lift half a ton o’ woollens this week,” 
were his instructions to the Fox on a Monday morning. 
These rags he obtained by barter, giving provisions from 
his shop in exchange. On two other days of the week, 
Wednesdays and Saturdays, the Fox went into the 
country with tinned meats, cloth, boots, sewing material, 
provisions, and bread. This Gillespie purchased in large 
quantities from the bakers, demanding a reduction in 
their retail price, or thirteen loaves to the dozen. For 
such stuff he got in exchange in the country fresh eggs, 
butter, cheese, and potatoes, which he exposed for sale 
in the shop. The bread he also sold to the fishermen. 
Nothing was too trivial for him. “ Every mickle mak’s 
a muckle,” was his latest saw. He noticed a child 
kicking a piece of stale bread in the gutter ; he chided the 
bairn, and said to McKelvie the mason-contractor, who 
was passing, “ That doesna look lik’ hungry Brieston.” 
He became the gates of the town. None could go out or 
in except through him; and the town took offence at 
Lonend, because of his unsleeping enmity. Lonend was 
very sore, for having held Muir head till the lease expired, 
and having asked for a renewal, he was fobbed off for half 
a year, and then given notice that a gentleman farmer was 
P 209 


210 


GILLESPIE 


taking the farm. Lonend, forced to sell his stock at a 
lower figure than he had paid to Gillespie, was in retreat 
at his own farm, brooding on revenge, and against a day 
of reckoning had locked up the sheet of paper which 
Gillespie and he had found tacked on to the door of 
Muir head farmhouse. 

It was December, and the fishing season being on the 
wane, Gillespie established his interests in new fields. 
On a raw, louring day of sleet Sandy the Fox and Jeck 
the Traiveller made a round of the town, leaving a rough 
cheap card at each door. The card, printed on both 
sides, agitated Brieston in its domestic nests, for it con- 
tained a gallant invitation : 

The Square, 
Brieston. 

Gillespie Strang begs to announce that he has 
opened a Rag, Rope, and Metal Department. 

And begs leave most respectfully to submit this 
card for your consideration, as the demand for White 
and Coloured Rags is more pressing than ever. He 
will Buy and Collect Rags of every description, such 
as old Dish-cloths, Velveteens, Sacking, Roping, 
Sheep-Netting, Carpeting, Dusters, or any kind of 
Rubbish made of Linen, Hemp, or Worsted; and 
though rotten as tinder, and only a pound or half a 
pound, look them up and bring them to Store No. IV 
at the Quay. Please do not forget that every piece 
of Rag helps to make a sheet of paper. Please to 
look them out of your coal-holes and back-places. 
All pieces of Rags that you have thrown to your 
back doors or into your soil holes or middens, wet or 
dry, clean or dirty, Linen or Woollen are wanted. 

Be your own Friend and Pay Your Rent with Rags. 

Please turn over. 


GILLESPIE 


211 


Gillespie will buy and collect the above articles 
in this vicinity on Monday mornings, and from the 
country on Tuesdays and Thursdays by van at the 
highest ready-money prices. He also buys Old 
Coats, Waistcoats, Trousers, Gowns, Shawls, Night- 
Dresses, Pyjamas, or any Ladies’ or Gent.’s left-off 
Wearing Apparel, Horse and Cow Hair, Old Ropes, 
Old Brass, Brass Candlesticks, Old Warming-Pans, 
Broken Spoons, Copper Kettles, Old Boilers, Metal 
Tea-Pots, Stew-Pans, Old Lead and Pewter, Cast 
and Wrought Iron, Metal, Copper, Old Carpets, 
Hammer-heads, Broken Guns, etc., etc. 

He will be thankful to all persons who will look 
out the above articles, if only a handful. Gillespie 
Strang will give the best price and pay Ready 
Money. 

Why have Middens when you can go to No. IV ? 

Furniture Bought, Sold, Hired, and Exchanged. 

Best Prices given for Bones, Hare and Rabbit 
Skins. 

No connection whatever with Hawkers, Collectors, 
or Jews. 

Support Home Industries. 

Business punctually attended to. 

If Gillespie was a hero on the sea-front he reached the 
zenith of admiration at the hearth of Brieston, where it 
was conceived that in the bad winter times a gold-mine 
was opened at Store No. IV for a little scavenging. He 
was not a man, but a god, with his unlimited market, 
his fountains of beatitude. Mary Bunch had nerve 
at the Pump to utter discord. The card was in her 
hand. 

“ Dae ye ken what Mrs. Galbraith said? Sez she, 
4 It’s the badge o’ your shame.’ ” 


212 


GILLESPIE 


“ What’s the badge o’ your shame mean ? ” asked Black 
Jean, frowning. 

“ It means Gillespa’s a fair bloodsucker ; he’ll sook 
the toon dry.” 

“Ach! wheest, Mary.” Nan at Jock took her hand 
from beneath her apron and flaunted it in Mary Bunch’s 
face. 

“ ’Deed he will,” continued Mary Bunch, ardently. 
“ He’s gettin’ the big man noo, but I mind the day he 
opened the wee shop in the Back Street when he left 
Muirheid ” — Gillespie took these temporary premises 
for some six months, till the house and shop in the Square 
were ready for him — “ Losh ! but he was the fly ane ; 
he took thon shop in the old tiled hoose, for it had a 
lum ye could stand on when it was cold. When there 
was a big divide among the men on the Setterdays he 
wad stan’ on the lum, watchin’ the weemin goin’ tae the 
shops doon in the front street ; then he’d come doon off 
the lum an’ kep them, an’ get his debt oot o’ them afore 
they’d a chance to get home.” Her small dark head 
was nodding vigorously; her face flushed; her eyes 
bright like a bird’s. “ An’ that wasna the only reason 
he had. It was awa’ back frae the road to the Kirk. 
A bonny deacon him ! Oh ! but he had the gran’ tred 
there on Sundays. It began wi’ Floracs at Rob the 
Solan ” (Flora, wife of Rob, nicknamed the Solan). “ They 
said she was a witch. Hooivir, she cam’ wan Sunday wi’ 
a five-poun’ noat — ye mind, there was a big fishin’ in the 
Kyles. She’d a dram on the Setterday, an’ took sixteen 
shullin’s worth on the Sunday night. They cairrit three 
dozen o’ ginger beer an’ a whup o’ pastry an’ stuff ower 
to the Bairracks in a spale-basket.” The Barracks sat 
tall and unlovely on the north road, where some of the 
Government men, who watched for the trawlers, had 
lodged. “ An’ what div ye think he did ? 4 Floracs, my 


GILLESPIE 213 

wumman,’ sez he, ‘ I canna change that muckle money 
for ye on a Sunday.' 

I’ll get the change the morn,’ sez Floracs. 

Floracs,’ sez he, 4 there’ll no pr’aps be another big 
fishin’ for a whilie that’ll ye hae five-pun’ notes handy.’ 

“ * Ay ! that’s true.’ 

Weel,’ sez he, ‘ my wy o’t wad be this. Just leave the 
money wi’ me an’ ye can tak’ a run ower on Sundays for 
your ginger beer, till the money’s feeneshed. It’ll last 
ye langer that wy, Sunday money, than breakin’ it up 
intae siller change. Ye ken hoo change slips awa’ through 
your fingers.’ 

“ Floracs said she wasna sae sure. 

“ ‘ Weel, this is the wy I look at it. If ye leave your 
money wi’ me it’s as safe as the bank; and on Sunday 
evenin’ ye can slip oot withoot reingin’ through the 
bowls in the dresser for’t. That wad only mak’ the 
Solan suspeecious ; but this wy he’ll never notiss. Dae 
ye see ? ’ An’ that’s the wy Gillespie took to dale wi’ 
weemin on the sly. Auld Strang cam’ to hear o’t, an’ 
him an’ Gillespie had words ower the heid o’t. Auld 
Strang wad be doon on his knees in the 4 Ghost ’ prayin’ 
for his son. An’ wan Sunday evening he drapped in 
instead o’ goin’ to the meetin’, an’ there was Gillespie 
an’ Floracs at Rob the Solan hevin’ a noise. The auld 
fella heard it a’ frae the kitchen. Ye ken’ the wy Gillespie 
did ? He wadna open the shop door, but gied up a laidder, 
an’ cut a hole in the loft above the shop an’ went doon 
intae the shop by another laidder. An’ there was the 
twa o’ them argle-bargling awa’. Floracs cam’ for a dozen 
o’ ginger beer an’ a dozen o’ pastry for a wee tea-pairty 
on the Monday when her man wad be oot at the fishin’. 

“ ‘ Ye’ll hae to pay this time, Floracs; your money’s 
done.’ 

“ ‘ Guidsakes ! done already % ’ 


214 


GILLESPIE 


“ 4 It’s a’ that.’ 

“ An’ then Floracs ca’d him for a’ the thief s an’ blaig- 
garts frae here to Jonnie Groats, an’ said she’d never put 
her fut inside his door again, an’ wad expose his ongoin’s.” 

“ 4 Dinna be sae hasty, Floracs ; I dinna want to expose 
ye or any dacent wumman. Ye ken hoo it wad be if I 
cheep’d. Your man wadna be pleased to hear o’ your 
tea-pairties wi’ a’ the Bairricks weemin when he’s awa’ 
at the fishin’.’ An’ clare tae Goad Floracs got a wild 
fright an’ began tae trummel in her shoes. That’s the 
wy he got a grup o’ them. It wusna shullin’s he wanted, 
but soavrins an’ half-soavrins, an’ neither wan nor anuther 
kent when the money was done, but himsel’. He made 
more on a Sunday than the other shopkeepers made a’ 
the week.” 

“ An’ what o’ auld Strang ? ” Nan at Jock’s voice piped 
eagerly. 

“ Weel ! naebody kens the oots an’ ins o’ that ; but 
there he was standin’ in the kitchen when Gillespie cam’ 
doon the laidder wi’ Floracs. She was that frichted she 
bolted. There was a big noise between faither an’ son. 
Some say that auld Strang lifted his staff on Gillespie ; 
an’ some had it that Gillespie caught the auld man by 
the throat an’ threw him on the bed. From that day 
till this Gillespie never showed face inside the ‘ Ghost ’.” 

Ay,” said Lucky, when the breathless narrative came 
to an end, “ that was aye Gillespie’s wy, makin’ money a’ 
the time, since he was a boy at the school.” 

“ Onyway,” said Mary Bunch, crisply, “ there’s noathin’ 
good comes oot o’ what Gillespie does. If ye just heard 
the curse Nanny at Baldy Murray put on his weddin’.” 

“ I never h’ard,” answered Nan at Jock for the others. 

“ Weel ! weel ! ” — Mary Bunch’s eyes were full of 
astonishment at such ignorance — “ the night they were 
mairrit, but we’d the spree at Lonen’.” 


GILLESPIE 


215 


“ Hoo were you there, Mary? ” asked Lucky. 

“ Och ! wheest, did I no’ ca’ on the bereavit when 
Galbraith slippit awa’, an’ Morag an’ Gillespie was there ? ” 
She hesitated a moment. 44 Where was I ? Ou ! ay ! 
but that was the jolly night. What a dose o’ roasted 
hens on the table. Ye’d think ye were in a hen-hoose 
that gied on fire. Aunty Nanny, Aunty Kate, Aunty 
Mary, Jamaics Black an’ my own faither were at the 
wee watchmaker’s dancin’ -school ; an’ och ! but my 
faither was the dancer. He danced at the fushin’ in the 
north through Skye on his stockin’ -soles wi’ the spree 
wi’ Jamaics Black’s faither. An’ och ! och ! but he was 
the braw man, Jamaics. There wasna a better trump 
player in Argyllshire, an’ he coorted Nanny Lang afore 
she took the sma’-pox an’ lost the wan eye wi’t, an’ he 
said he’d tek’ her though she was as blin’ as a bat. Och ! 
och ! but that was the nicht. Weel, they say that Alastair 
Murray was talkin’ aboot it tae himsel’ in the church the 
next Sunday a’ the time the minister was preachin’. 
Ye ken he went wrong in the mind, an’ they had tae tek’ 
him away tae the asylum up at Bannerie. Fine I mind 
the day. It was a Sunday, too — the Sunday Big Finla’s 
wife had a waen. I mind afore they took him awa’ his 
mother came tae me an’ sez she, 4 Are ye puttin’ any 
odds on Alastair ? ’ 

“ 4 Nanny,’ I sez, 4 1 put an odds on him. I aye hear 
him on the road lecterin’ awa’ tae hissel’ : an’ he’s aye 
goin’ up tae the graveyaird.’ 4 Weel,’ sez she, 4 it was 
Gillespie’s weddin’ began it on my poor Alastair. He got 
a crack on the heid, an’ hesna been richt since. But mind 
what I’m tellin’ you, Mary Bunch, my poor Alastair’s 
no’ the only wan that’ll go off his heid wi’ Gillespie, 
whoever ’ill leeve tae see’t’ — She streitched oot her 
twa hands — 4 The duvvil in hell,’ sez she, 4 was at thon 
weddin’.’ 


216 


GILLESPIE 


“ ‘ Wheest ! wheest ! Nanny/ I sez ; ‘ dinna speak 

lik’ that.’ 

“ ‘ No ! I’ll no’ wheest; just you wait. The curse 
that’s on my Alastair ’ill be on him ! ’ I catchit her by 
the airm. 

“ ‘ Dinna you curse him, Nanny, leave that tae the 
Almighty.’ 

“ Weel, that brought her tae her senses. 

“ 4 I’ll say nae mair, Mary. My Alastair’s tae be taen 
away come Sunday wi’ Doctor Maclean. I hope tae Goad 
I’ll be deid afore then.’ ” 

There was silence at the Pump. Something sinister 
and terrible seemed to brood over Gillespie and the 
opulence of Store No. IV. 

“ Dae ye believe, Mary, it was the spree at Lonen’ 
that put Alastair off his head ? ” asked Black Jean in a 
low voice. 

“ Goad kens,” answered Mary Bunch ; “ but if anything 
comes ower Gillespie or his faimly, I’ll mind o’ Nanny’s 
words.” 

She wrapped her shawl about her neck, and leaned a 
little to one side, ready to sheer off through the gathering 
night. “ Goad alone kens the wy things happen in this 
world.” 

The sound of their scurrying feet went down the 
cobbled road. At the foot of the Pump, one of Gillespie’s 
advertisement cards was lying. Drip ! drip ! drip ! the 
water fell on it, softening it, crumpling it, obliterating the 
writing of its gospel of commerce. 


CHAPTER XI 


A sturdy, thick-set female figure walked slowly up 
the cart-road to Lonend. The head was alert, proudly 
poised, the dilated nostrils were eagerly drinking in deep 
gulps of the fragrance of the fields. It was Mrs. Gal- 
braith, who had come to ask Lonend to be allowed to work 
at the harvest. He turned a shamefast face upon her. 

“ It’s no’ work for the likes o’ you, Margaret.” 

“ It’s not for the money I want to work. I must live 
on a farm now and again or I’ll go mad.” 

“ Come as often as ye like an’ welcome,” he said eagerly, 
his face lightening. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Logan. I should like to stay for 
to-day and go just where I like.” 

She passed through a back gate, walked along a dike 
side, crossed at the top of a potato field, passed through 
another gate, and came on the harvesters. At the sight 
her step became light ; her body swung free and rhythmic- 
ally; her face was transfigured. It was a cloudless 
autumn day. The hush of fading things, of leaves drop- 
ping silently, lingered on the dew-drenched trees. The 
long valley below, in which lay Brieston, was grey with 
mist, and suggested a lake of amethyst, with here and 
there a lance of gold sinking into the soft billows. Light 
flooded the sky and drenched the earth. The wide, 
sweeping view accentuated the curves of the country; 
and the light toned down its edges. The hills rose in 
yellowing slopes beyond Muir head to the sky with waver- 
ing fires on their face. The slopes^ billowing one into 

217 


218 


GILLESPIE 


the other, appeared as if lifted by a mighty wind and 
arrested when their crests were about to break. Beyond 
all was high Beinn an Oir, assailing to the eye, towering 
up like something supernatural. 

The plum-like bloom of autumn was mellow on the 
fields. A riot of bracken flamed on the hem of the wood ; 
beyond, diamonds of dew hung on every bell of the 
heather ; the hedges were ablaze with hips and haws ; 
where the sun slanted through the leaves they looked like 
yellow flame ; and overhead the sky was a blue lake of 
light. Dark bars of cloud in the south-west completed 
the image. They were fantastically shaped islands 
asleep in that vast hyacinth sea. 

The reaping had been finished two days ago. The 
stooks were standing up like old bearded men. Mrs. 
Galbraith sat in the shadow of the wood gazing on the busy 
field. There was no sense here of life being an hostage 
to hard and wearisome labour, and the fruit of harvest 
depending on the many imperilling chances of the weather. 
The hopes that had been sown and ploughed into the 
ground in spring were realised, and the fears that attended 
the spring frosts and summer drought were at an end. 
It is an open-handed time, with an air of plenty encom- 
passing fields alive with merry folk. There is no work 
on earth like harvest- work. It is a Bacchic time of song. 
The wine stands up to the bridles of the horses. And 
there is no time when master and servants mingle so 
much together in fellowship as at this sacrament of 
bounty. 

“ Dear God,” she murmured, “ it is good to be alive.” 
None knows what freedom is like the man who, released 
from prison, stands without drinking great gulps of God’s 
clean air, as he lets his sick eye rove over hill and field. 
Mrs. Galbraith felt this enlargement of life as she watched 
a group of children. The strenuous labour of ploughing, 


GILLESPIE 


219 


sowing, and harrowing is for men alone. The harvest 
is the children’s hour. She watched them trot and 
gambol about, rosy as scarlet autumn flowers, and very 
much excited, as they rivalled each other in dragging 
the largest sheaves to the carts. The women chattered 
because they must, and, flushed and happy, shared each 
other’s joy. In no hour do they know less of self. Mrs. 
Galbraith wandered among them, speaking a word to 
each, and was surprised at the respect they showed her. 
Lonend quietly joined her. It was a good harvest. He 
hoped she would come to the harvest home on next 
Wednesday; but she shook her head, smiling. “I do 
not care for these things, I prefer being here.” Lonend 
knew from her tone and her smile that in some way he 
was forgiven. 

Mrs. Galbraith crossed over to the carts where the 
men were at work. They saluted her, acknowledging her 
grave dignity where she stood stroking the glossy neck 
of the brown Clydesdale. The men worked with silent 
perseverance, tasting a slower joy than the children, a 
calmer pleasure than the women. Looking at their 
tanned faces and simple, incurious eyes she learned 
again the wisdom that is in healthful labour, and re- 
membered the or are ac labor are of the monks. The 
very appearance of these men spoke to her of the deep, 
quiet things of earth. Their brown hands were stained 
with earth’s very juice; ears of corn were in their hair 
and their beards and clung to their shirt sleeves. She 
felt the indescribable savour of the soil, sharp almost to 
an edge of pain, and the physical effects of its colour and 
scent pass into a realm of mystery, where that which is 
visible and tangible melts into a suggestion of something 
profound, baffling, haunting, which emanates from the 
bosom of mother earth. She turned away with a glorified 
face and joined the children. 


220 


GILLESPIE 


She had eaten of Lonend’s bread, and asked leave to 
take with her a bouquet of flowers when she went home. 
He turned in the direction of his garden, behind the 
farmhouse, but she checked him with a slight gesture of 
her hand. 

4 4 1 wish to remain, ” she said, 44 till I see the lights 
come out in Brieston. If I may I will get the flowers 
then by myself.” 

The last sheaf was in the cart which rumbled across 
the field. The hush of twilight, of things that have been 
wrought with and are for ever finished, stole across the 
bare upland still heavy with fragrance. A few yellow 
leaves lay among the pale-gold of the stubble, whispering 
like ghosts in every eddy of the breeze. Rooks and 
starlings were busy gleaning, and as Mrs. Galbraith 
walked in the field, their black cloud rose with a tumul- 
tuous whirring of wings, and passing in thunder over her 
head, left her alone with that calm sanctification of 
evening in which there is nothing of man or of his works. 
The window of Muirhead, far off on the brae above the 
sea, turned to liquid conflagration as it caught the long level 
rays of the setting sun, and flamed in crimson fire. She 
watched the glow fade and pass as greyness crept down 
from Beinn an Oir. The trees around became spectres. A 
ghostly sibillation stirred in the dimness of the whispering 
wood where the chill wind stirred the leaves. 

Sphinx-like, she stood regarding the field, which had a 
look of youth on its shorn face. It was beautiful and yet 
very sad, a marred face the sight of which, in the soft 
crepuscular light, provoked her to tears. 44 1 am always 
destined,” she thought sadly, 44 to be left alone in the 
stubble.” Silence reigned through the sober hues; it 
was the solemn hour in which to be alone with broken 
hopes, with perished illusions, and fallen dreams. “ And 
yet — and yet,” she thought, “ from this day that has been 


GILLESPIE 


221 


given me I can fashion fresh dreams and build up new 
hopes which may serve, in some measure, to relieve the 
gloomy background of coming winter, and light their 
candles in the darkness of life’s inevitable vicissitudes.” 
Happiness is not altogether vanished when unregretting 
memory can recall a golden hour of sorcery and colour, 
of mirth and magic ; when it can send us into old valleys 
of light, and re-create a blue sky and a shining happy field. 
So simple it is to enter our Holy Land. 

She sighed deeply as she turned towards the gate, for 
she was quitting the best that life held for her. As she 
gained a little crest, she saw the lights of Brieston shine 
around the bay, and long spears of gold search into the 
blue darkness of the harbour. Quietly she culled her 
flowers, and moved away down the cart-road. The 
figure of a man stood at the gate of Lonend in the shadow 
of a hawthorn hedge. He was watching his angelic guest 
pass on into the night beneath the faintly breaking stars 
— a guest who had left behind a sense of pardon and peace, 
and a deep desire for revenge. 


CHAPTER XII 


Mrs. Galbraith’s room was skilfully arranged in a 
harmony of colour and foliage — blood-red rowan leaves, 
hips and haws, flaming gladioli, copper chrysanthemums, 
scarlet nasturtiums — a sensuous room of blood and wine ; 
flowers and foliage which had gushed up from the heart 
of the earth in a blazonry of passion, in the blood of the 
martyrs. The frame of the portrait of a girl, over the 
mantelpiece, with a dark, oval face of honey — heavy 
languor, and eyes half -veiled beneath dark, heavy eyelids, 
was wreathed in the blood of Virginia creeper. 

Mrs. Strang, who had been invited to tea, came a little 
late. She was wearing a sealskin jacket, and her fingers 
were loaded with rings. From a thin gold chain round 
her neck hung a cameo set in gold. Mrs. Galbraith 
cast a piercing look out of her dark eyes on Mrs. Strang, 
who stood sniffing the heavy fragrance, and greedily 
drinking in the colour and the splendour with an amazed 
look. 

“ I have no longer a farm, Morag,” she spoke with 
a grave, sweet air; “ but the forests are here and the 
moor; ” she touched a piece of purple heather in a china 
bowl on the mantelpiece. “ I only need moss on the 
floor, and a hawk crying over the roof.” 

Mrs. Strang gazed pathetically at this image of her 
old life at Lonend. The subtle influence of the morning 
heather, wet with dew, the cool nooks of moss, the green 
patches of sward, the wealth of bracken, and bars of 
colour across the sky, were revived in her being. Her 

222 


GILLESPIE 


223 


old gay, careless life at Lonend floated up in an enchant- 
ing mirage before her eyes, and she experienced a sense 
of pain and of loss. There was a sudden inspiration in 
the floral wreath of the room which saddened her. A 
reaction from her barren, penurious life of coal-dust 
and salt herring came upon her with intolerable force 
and pathos. Her eyes were as the eyes of a hungry, 
timid beast, stealing out of a wood. She saw in the glow- 
ing heather the seductive hopes that never had been 
fulfilled. She remembered her struggles growing fainter 
and fainter against a man of granite, on behalf of the 
unwearied passion which drove her from Lonend. Once 
she had imagined this passion to be inexhaustible, and 
that her life would burn eternal incense at its shrine. 
In the heart of these flowers she saw her secret raptures, 
her unspoken hopes, the aspirations whose flame lit the 
sordidness of her early married life. She felt exhausted 
in the midst of this riot of colour, and the despair attend- 
ant on unfulfilled hopes attacked her. Her hands hung 
loosely; vexations and rebellion swept over her, surging 
and ebbing, and leaving her utterly dispirited and wearied 
of existence. She was in that state of mind in which 
anything that may lend colour to life is grasped. 

“Dear me,” she said; “how bonnie it is! Oh, 
Margaret ! I wish I was back at Lonend.” 

“ I was there yesterday.” 

The simple statement appeared to petrify Mrs. Strang, 
who felt herself an outcast in an unknown country. 

“ Yesterday ? What were you doing there ? ” 

“ They were leading-in. I went to see them. It’s 
so beautiful and full of God.” Mrs. Galbraith spoke 
in a subdued voice. 

“ I never go anywhere now.” Mrs. Strang’s face was 
like a mask. She looked vacantly round the room, and 
her gaze rested on a square wooden box, on a small 


224 


GILLESPIE 


table at the window. On one side of it was the figure 
of a dragon, on the other three sides the wood was un- 
stained, showing that the poker-drawing was the work 
of Mrs. Galbraith. “ An’ I never do anything.” 

Mrs. Galbraith picked up the box. “ I learned 
marquetry and poker-work at the Normal College. It is 
astonishing how the very smallest thing that we learn 
becomes of service to us,” she said. “ We are creatures 
made to conquer and beautify things.” She then showed 
Mrs. Strang some crochet-work, a bedspread, which she 
was making to the order of the Laird’s mother, for which 
she was to get twelve pounds when it was finished. 

“I do it partly for a living and partly to divert my 
thoughts. I have no other manual work to do now. 
This is where I find men have resources which we are 
deprived of. For the vexations of life they find a solace 
in business, while women are often left with their 
thoughts.” 

Mrs. Strang felt the truth of this. “Yes,” she said, 
wearily; “ I sit all day looking at the fire.” 

Mrs. Galbraith smiled contemptuously. “ I should 
go mad if I did that. I must keep grief at bay with my 
needle. The very fact that I have to preserve a watchful 
eye and a steady hand soothes my mind. I cannot give 
rein to the passion which consumes me while I am 
crocheting.” 

“ What passion ? ” asked Mrs. Strang, with a kindling 
interest. 

“ Vengeance.” 

The word came like a gust ; and a sudden fear of this 
proud, self-reliant woman gripped Mrs. Strang’s heart. 
She herself was incapable of vengeance, the very thought 
of which terrified her hapless soul. Dark rings became 
visible beneath her large eyes, her face paled and her 
breathing quickened. 


GILLESPIE 


225 


“ Vengeance,” she whispered ; “ what for ? ” 

“ For the treachery which drove me from my home. 

I felt it keenly yesterday.” Sparks glowed in her dark 
eyes, like phosphorous in a night-sea. Mrs. Strang 
lifted a scared face. Her father, her husband, were 
threatened by this daring woman who was capable of 
anything. Mrs. Strang foretasted some horrible disaster, 
trembled before some irremediable misfortune. Her 
face flushed and paled ; she was stifling, and felt herself 
giddy. An arm went about her waist with tender 
firmness, and drew her to a chair, from which she could 
only gasp “ Margaret.” Her bonnet was taken off ; 
the cold edge of a tumbler was held to her chattering 
teeth as she laid her head back on the chair. Her face 
was like clay, and twitched in a nervous spasm ; her hair 
a little disordered; beads of sweat oozed out on her 
forehead. She opened her eyes, beseeching peace and 
safety. 

“ Margaret,” she whispered, “ what a fright I got.” 

“ Hush, Morag ! don’t think any more of what I said. 
I forgot myself. There, get off your jacket. We’ll have 
tea, and then you’ll be better.” The slim neck was 
stretched out on the back of the chair, and the eyes 
closed. Mrs. Galbraith gazed down at her. 

“ There are two of us burning at a slow fire,” she 
thought, as she turned to the table and made the room 
glad with the tinkle of cups and saucers. 

At tea, Mrs. Galbraith gave an account of her visit 
to Lonend, and spoke warmly of the kindness of Mr. 
Logan. Mrs. Strang, relieved and happy, imagined that 
the vengeance spoken of meant nothing after all. 

“You ought to visit Lonend, it is at its best just now.” 
Mrs. Galbraith spoke with her accustomed air of decisive- 
ness and authority. 

Mrs. Strang’s face became tearful. 

Q 


226 


GILLESPIE 


“ Gillespie wouldn’t like it.” 

“ You’re a fool, Morag. You are suffering slow murder 
for a man who takes no notice of you.” She spoke in 
a tone of acid irony, which would certainly have become 
insolent in Gillespie’s presence. She began to knead 
the clay of Mrs. Strang’s life. “ He is pleasant to every 
one in Brieston but you.” She poured forth the thoughts 
of long evenings at the lonely fireside — brooding which 
had gone far to spoil her fine nature. She had neglected 
her Imitation and her In Memoriam, and with the 
image of a murdered husband and a ruined home con- 
stantly before her had become cold, calculating — a machine 
of steel, constantly running. It was all poured out now 
in a jumble of invective, cunning, and pseudo-sympathy 
with Mrs. Strang, whose life, she said, was too solitary ; 
the greed of her husband was blighting her nature. That 
dark, impenetrable man, Gillespie, who had no affinity 
of character, was freezing her life. Yesterday for Mrs. 
Strang was anguish; to-day, agony; and to-morrow 
would be torment, so long as she suffered herself to lie 
in silence beneath the thorns from which he alone culled 
the rose. Mrs. Strang, incapable of asking how Mrs. 
Galbraith became acquainted with these intimate facts, 
only understood the drift of denunciation, and saw 
herself a foolish, downtrodden creature, whom this superb 
woman advised to go her own way and live her own life, 
and leave Gillespie and his squabbles to look after them- 
selves. Was she not a sad, loveless soul, drained of 
every pleasure which life had to offer? Every one had 
a festival at some time or another, and facilities for 
enjoying it, but she alone of all Brieston, the wife of one 
of its richest men, lived a grey and cloudy existence. 
What, perhaps, had greater effect on Mrs. Strang than 
anything else, was Mrs. Galbraith’s advice to her to give 
over her tacit renunciation. She was sacrificing herself 


GILLESPIE 


227 


for one who was neither impressed nor grateful. Why 
did she fear him ? An outbreak would not suit him now 
that his business was growing, and he was trying to curry 
favour with the country gentry. The very echo of 
quarrelling would injure his business, because the town 
regarded him as a hero and benefactor, and he could not 
afford to have the skeleton in his cupboard exposed. He 
would give blackmail rather to satisfy her whims. She 
could have the whip-hand over him. This cold, merci- 
less logic sank into Mrs. Strang’s mind, as she listened 
with greedy ear to the stupendous Margaret. Yes ! 
she had nothing to fear; Gillespie’s line was quietism, 
suavity. Did they not call him 44 souple Gillespie ” ? He 
would have to keep up the role ; and Mrs. Strang could 
pursue her life with impunity. Gillespie’s wife, fascinated 
by this masterly plan of campaign, felt herself lifted up 
and shaking the doors of secret, darling dreams. Her 
flesh grew warm and her spirits ardent under the dark, 
glowing eyes of this liberator, who she imagined was a 
woman of mystery, of daring and romance. She sniffed 
the heavy, sensuous odour of the flowers, and felt a new 
flow and torrent of life for the first time since Eoghan 
was born. Her limbs were no longer leaden, or her 
eyes bleached with staring at the kitchen fire. 

44 Yes, Morag, all the penalty you are paying is for 
your foolish acquiescence. Gillespie is intolerable. Even 
Mrs. Tosh speaks of you as a hermit. 4 She’s become 
quite a hermit, really,’ and you know where she got 
that, from the minister’s sister. Don’t you remember 
how you used to walk out in the evenings at Lonend ? 
You never walk out now. You are a woman no longer; 
you are a victim.” 

Mrs. Strang, cypher of silent patience, had not the 
intellect to combat such specious argument, but greedily 
accepted the word of inducement which is sufficient to 


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make a weak woman walk in the path toward which she 
is hungering. “ He is making you contemptible before 
the whole town.” Mrs. Galbraith drew a sombre picture 
of a future of dark brooding taciturnity on Mrs. Strang’s 
part, and monstrous neglect on his. He would not even 
give her clothes. Mrs. Strang remembered she had had 
none since their wedding, and decided that to-morrow 
she would order some from Mrs. Tosh. There would be 
ceaseless complainings over trifles, constant domestic 
discontent ; her children would be alienated ; she would 
not have even the dignity of a sphinx in her misfortunes, 
but would become a mummy. The creepers and weeds 
of existence would in such a lethargy stifle her life, 
till she would be powerless, and have neither the strength 
nor the resolution to ward off the pestering flies of 
circumstance. 

The level rays of sunset streamed in on the flowers 
and foliage, and burned in pools of fire on the jewels on 
her fingers. The glory touched her face; the inner 
glow had ebbed from her body, leaving her sunk in 
dejection. Her head fell forward in abandon as she 
thought of her forlorn future — an animal that has long 
been coursed by hounds. She was hopelessly incompetent 
to wrestle with the problem of her fate; being a frail, 
rudderless boat, tossed about on a dark night on a stormy 

sea. Yet one star burned brightly in the dark she 

could take things in her own hands, and her husband, 
afraid of ruining his business, would be powerless to 
deny her. Neither Margaret nor she was aware that 
Gillespie would treat such conduct quite in another 
fashion — as he actually did treat it — by posing as a 
martyr, and out of his wife’s errors gaining the capital 
of sympathy. 

The setting light stung her eyes, and she bowed her 
head. “ Out of all the days of your life, are you never 


GILLESPIE 


229 


to have one or two you can call your own? ” said Mrs. 
Galbraith, rising and lifting a decanter from the dresser. 
“ Topsail Janet told me to have in a dram for you,” she 
smiled faintly ; “ but perhaps you’re afraid Gillespie will 
know.” 

There was profound silence in the room. A leaf 
detached itself from a branch over Mrs. Strang’s head, 
and fluttered down into her lap. She looked up with 
the blood-red leaf in her fingers. 

“ Thank you, Margaret,” she answered, half sobbing, 
and took the tumbler in a trembling hand. Mrs. Galbraith 
watched with relentless eye. She felt herself begun on 
the task of sapping the foundations of the house of 
Gillespie Strang, murderer and benefactor of Brieston. 

As Topsail Janet put her to bed that night her mistress 
babbled incoherently of a new dress from Mrs. Tosh, 
and of the bit of heather from Lonend, which Topsail 
had found awry in the button-hole of the sealskin jacket. 


CHAPTER XIII 


A change apparent to all had come over Mrs. Strang. 
She visited. Every afternoon it was fine she went, 
dressed in her sealskin jacket and wearing her rings, and 
gold chain about her neck, to Lonend. Her health 
rapidly improved; her colour returned; she lost her 
thin, dry appearance; the magnificent coil of her hair 
became glossy, its raven darkness standing out against 
her white linen collar. Lonend, professedly glad to see 
her, engaged her in conversation about Mrs. Galbraith. 

“ She’s a thoroughbred an’ no mistake,” said Lonend. 

“ I believe, father, you and she will make a match 
yet.” Mrs. Strang’s laugh had a girlish ring. 

An idea which he could not express had for some time 
troubled Lonend, and he was amazed at its revelation 
by his daughter, whose face he keenly scrutinised. 
“ Hoots, lassie ! I might dae waur.” From that hour 
Lonend had a new interest in life. 

Two things befell Mrs. Strang on these expeditions. 
On returning from Lonend on her second visit, she put 
in at Mrs. Tosh’s Emporium. That little, withered, 
spectacled woman got into a flutter; and when Mrs. 
Strang ordered a new dress and jacket, a new hat and 
gloves, she fawned upon the wife of the great Gillespie. 
Mrs. Strang, having tasted the sweets of power, walked 
home treading the air, and waited in impatience till the 
clothes were ready. Topsail demanded to be allowed 
to open the parcel, and at sight of the raiment fell into 
an ecstasy of admiration, insisted on Mrs. Strang un- 
dressing forthwith, and proceeded to clothe her in the 

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231 


new garments. She walked round her mistress, crooning 
her, patting her, open-mouthed with wonder and pleasure. 

“ Ye’re a rale leddy noo,” she exclaimed. “ Gillespie 
ill tek’ a second notion o’ ye.” Topsail herself was in 
coarse rags. 

They were disappointed that on the next day grey 
sheets of rain swept across the Square. Mrs. Strang, 
however, did not sit gazing into the fire. “ Janet,” she 
said, “ slip away down to Brodie’s and get a bottle of 
whisky.” 

Topsail’s rosy face was full of perplexity. 

“ There’s nae money,” she said. 

“ Never mind the money ; tell Brodie to put it to 
Mr. Strang’s account.” 

Topsail, thinking of the unexpected splendour of the 
new clothes, and that things came for the asking in 
the magical name of Gillespie, set out, and when she 
returned was rosier than ever and hilarious. 

“ What a drookin’ ” — she took off her shawl and shook 
it — “ there’s no even a spug left in the streets.” 

“ Did you get the whisky ? ” asked her mistress. 

“ Ay, you bate ! ” said Topsail in glee, and not yet 
out of astonishment at the potency of the name Gillespie. 
“ I could get the hale toon for the axin’.” 

The next day was grey and windless, and late in the 
afternoon Mrs. Strang set out for Lonend, dressed in her 
new clothes. 

“A’ ye need noo,” said Topsail, at the head of the 
stair, “ is a muff. A’ the leddies cairry them.” 

Mrs. Strang entered the Emporium on her way, and 
asking for a muff, consulted jumpy Mrs. Tosh. 

“ Black will suit you best,” said that lady ; “ black 
fox is worn just now.” 

The fact is that black fox furs were never seen within 
the Emporium ; but a niece of Mr. Kennedy, the school- 


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master, who was living in Edinburgh, was to be married 
in November, and he, preparing a charming wedding 
gift, had ordered through Mrs. Tosh a few sets of expensive 
furs, one of which he had chosen. The others were still 
with Mrs. Tosh, and about to be returned to Messrs. 
Stewart & Macdonald, Glasgow. 

She led Mrs. Strang into her sanctum, in front of a long 
panel mirror set in a thin black frame, attached to one 
of the walls. The remaining part of the walls was covered 
with fashion-plates of tall, elegant ladies. Mrs. Tosh 
undid a large cardboard box, withdrew a fur boa, and with 
prim mouth and demure face of importance, hung it 
caressingly over Mrs. Strang’s shoulders. Head to the 
side, like a bird, she glanced at the effect, hopping about. 
Mrs. Strang smiled rapturously at her image in the mirror. 

“You suit black fox, my dear ; it makes you so 
elegant, really.” She returned to the cardboard box 
and withdrew a muff, which she gave to Mrs. Strang. 

“ Really, you do look sweet, Mrs. Strang. Every one 
will be quite jealous.” Mrs. Strang, in this odour of 
flattery and furs, felt that she lived as she examined 
herself in the mirror. The effect was electrical. Buried 
in black shining fur, she seemed taller, more beautiful; 
her face flushed with health, her eyes sparkling, and the 
gold chain across the fur like a thread of fire. 

“ I think I’ll just keep them on,” she said, in a cooing 
voice ; “ they’re lovely.” 

“You do look a picture, dear, really.” Mrs. Tosh 
trotted after her into the front shop, arranging the furs. 
“ Keep the fox -heads that way, so as to be seen ; there 
now.” 

Mrs. Strang, with a fast-beating heart, went out into 
the timid sunshine, and took the road to Lonend. She 
had not inquired about the price of the furs. That was 
Gillespie’s business. 


CHAPTER XIV 


The road to Lonend was full of interest, having many 
happy twists and turnings. Mrs. Strang was walking 
fast, her heart beating as quickly, for she was anticipating 
her father’s verdict on her appearance. At a sudden 
bend she came on a man who was looking through an 
opening between two rowan trees in the direction of 
West Brieston Loch, which lay, an eye of silver, beneath 
the tawny hills. His back was to her, and he leaned 
upon a walking-stick. Except Dr. Maclean, no one in 
these parts carried a walking-stick. In his right hand 
he held a pair of grey gloves. As Mrs. Strang came near 
he turned quickly round. She saw a look of surprised 
pleasure swiftly cross his face, and felt touched by the 
unpremeditated homage. He raised his hat, and bowing 
said : 

“ Am I by any chance on the right road to Lonend ? ” 

Mrs. Strang was confused; should she say yes, and 
pass on ? 

“ It’s my father’s farm,” she stammered, and then 
blushed, feeling her answer to be stupid. 

A quick, glad look leapt into the stranger’s eyes. 

“Ah!” he said; “you are perhaps on your road 
there ? ” 

“ Yes,” she replied, putting her muff up to her burning 
cheek. 

“ May I be allowed to have the pleasure of accompany- 
ing you \ ” He gave a slight, deferential incline of his 
head forward. 


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234 


GILLESPIE 


“ It’s not very far.” Her heart was beating so loudly 
she was sure he must hear it ; but if he did, he made no 
sign. A strange exhilaration possessed her. She was 
glad she wore her furs. She had never walked with a man 
for years. She kept her eyes on the ground, and saw 
that he wore tan shoes — his trousers were turned up 
over them — and brown socks. 

When he spoke again she was startled. 

“ Do you think Mr. Logan will take in a boarder ? ” 

She glanced up at him. He had a clear-skinned, 
dark, clean-shaven face, and thick glossy dark hair. 
He seemed in age little more than a boy. He met her 
glance with a smile. 

“I — I’m not sure; we never had boarders.” She 
furiously hoped that her father would take him in. 

“ Oh, it’s all right ! ” He flung his head up, and took 
a bigger stride. “I’d prefer to live out of town ; that’s 
why I’ve come to Lonend. I’m the new schoolmaster.” 

Mrs. Strang felt radiant at this confidence. 

“ I — I think father won’t object.” 

“ Ah ! ” he said, tossing his head, as a horse tosses its 
mane ; “ if I had you for my advocate, there would be 
no question about it.” 

Mr. Mowbray Campbell Rees Campion had been 
destined for the ministry of the Church of Scotland. His 
father, an Englishman, was in the cotton business of 
Manchester, and had taken to wife a woman of the 
Scottish hills, who desired to have a son in the Church. 
He was entered at Glasgow University, and proved 
himself an erratic, brilliant man, devoted to a fastidious 
course of reading. He soon discovered that to be a prize- 
man was to be a sponge. Soak in the lectures of the 
professor, pour them out on the examination book, and 
lo ! you figured on the “ distinguished list.” “ The 
yellow-backed examination book is jaundiced,” he said, 


GILLESPIE 


235 


“ with the ill-digested ideas of the professors, which the 
men who aim at lucrative posts in the professions splash 
in ink across its pages. It is all splash.” He developed, 
as he said, “ a fine taste for the wines of France,” and took 
a degree with honours in English, because he fell under 
the spell of a tall, lank, stooping, dark-grey man with an 
eagle face, who made Shakespeare and the Elizabethans 
live and palpitate. Mr. Campion was a man destined 
for a career, if only he would apply himself; but with 
a reputation for force, fire, and originality in Union de- 
bates, he drifted into the Divinity Hall to idle. Alas ! 
he found there neither the searching brilliance of the 
eagle-faced man nor his broad, tolerant humanity, but 
an atmosphere of parchments and portraits of Scottish 
divines upon the walls. The professor of divinity was 
droning, “ We were discussing Schleiermacher yesterday,” 
when Mr. Campion had a vision of a Man being led along 
a scorching road under a biting tree, one end of which 
was on the shoulder of a slave, mad with fear. A jeering 
mob surged about the Man. The slave, a negro out of 
Cyrenaica, glanced with bloodshot eyes for a chance of 
escape from his maddened and maddening tormentors. 
The figure in front walked on, His pitying face to the 
skies. 

“ Schleiermacher, gentlemen, we saw, strove to do 
justice to the claims of both science and religion.” 

Mowbray C. R. Campion suffered agony of mind. 
At the close of the lecture he noticed the vicious snap with 
which the students closed their note-books, and went 
out and devoted himself to the wines of France. 

The saintly professor of Church history, to whose 
charge he had been given from Manchester, walked with 
him for an hour and a half the following day in the 
Botanic Gardens. He accused Mr. Campion of nothing, 
but said that Saint Augustine, after spending a riotous 


236 


GILLESPIE 


youth, had enriched the world. Mowbray Campion 
was penitent; but he knew he was not destined for the 
Church. He left the Divinity Hall and its dull portraits 
of George Buchanan and Calvin, sick at heart of its futile, 
insipid life, which all spelled a “ living.” “ The last 
place in Scotland where you will find the Cross so much 
as mentioned is in the Divinity Hall,” was his farewell 
judgment. 

Through the astonishing romance of life he came into 
contact with the Receiver of Wrecks of the “Anchor 
Hotel,” who, unable to get rid of ancient, tottering Mr. 
Kennedy, had proposed the subtle plan to his colleagues on 
the Board of leaving the elementary department in the 
hands of the old teacher, and advertising for “a really 
good man, who will be up-to-date, from the University,” 
to take charge of the Secondary Department, for which 
a two-storey building was nearing completion. Mr. Stuart, 
the minister, advised getting an honours-man; the Re- 
ceiver of Wrecks acquiesced, without the least knowledge 
of who or what an honours-man might be. After some 
squabbling, the salary was fixed at one hundred and forty 
pounds a year, and Mr. Campion appointed. 

“ I’ll do what I can,” Mrs. Strang replied. She felt 
the flash of admiration in his eyes, and was sorry when, 
immediately, they came in sight of the crazy, wooden 
gate leading into the yard. They found Lonend 
superintending the building of a cornstack. 

“ This is my father,” said Mrs. Strang, and hurried 
into the house. 

Mr. Campion began to talk eagerly about the farm 
and the harvest, walking about everywhere, and asking 
innumerable questions. He had a curious, restless mind. 
He said he was the new schoolmaster — M. C. R. Campion. 
“I’m a man of initials ; ” his hearty laugh rang across 
the courtyard and up to Mrs. Strang, peeping at her old 


GILLESPIE 


237 


bedroom window. Her eyes devoured his face. He took 
off his hat. She saw a longish head with a large bump 
behind. How different he was from Gillespie — young, 
exuberant, well-dressed, courteous; and he asked such 
strange questions. Her father laughed heartily in ex- 
plosive bursts as he listened to Mr. Campion touching 
off vividly the members of the School Board who had 
interviewed him. “ Keen business men, I suppose ? ” 

They disappeared round the cart-shed; and presently 
Mrs. Strang heard them come in at the front door. 

“ Step up this way. If the room ’ill suit ye, ye can 
have it; there’s no one bidin’ in’t since my daughter 
got married.” 

She looked around for a place in which to conceal 
herself, and was discovered by Lonend, who was followed 
into the bedroom by Mr. Campion. 

“ Oh ! I beg your pardon,” he said, and turned to 
go out. 

“ Hoots ! hae a look at it, seein’ ye’re here onyway. 
Morag, this is the new schoolmaster; he’s wantin’ to 
bide at Lonen’.” 

Morag flushed with her sense of guilty knowledge, 
and made no answer. 

“ I could not be happier, taking up your daughter’s 
room.” He bowed to her. 

“That’s a’ richt; I’ll be gled o’ your company on 
winter nights. It’s fell lonely here whiles.” 

Mr. Campion held out his hand to her and said good- 
bye. He gave her a firm hand-clasp. His hand was 
soft and warm. 

He did not remain in the yard, but swung out through 
the gate and down the cart-road, slapping his walking- 
stick with his gloves, his head held buoyantly; his 
glance searching everywhere. 

She remained standing at the window lost in thought. 


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GILLESPIE 


There was an air of gaiety and youth, of daring and 
romance about him ; his black eyes were like Mrs. 
Galbraith’s. “ I should like to have another walk with 
him,” she thought; and went downstairs to show her 
father the furs, and hear his opinion of Mr. Campion. 


CHAPTER XV 


Mrs. Strang made the curious discovery that she was 
without courage to take any initiative of her own, except 
when she was under the domineering influence of Mrs. 
Galbraith. If she remained absent for more than two 
or three days from the house in the Back Street she 
lapsed into hopeless contemplation of the fire. The only 
thing which she persisted in was her visits to Lonend. 
Brodie had presented his account long before Mrs. Tosh, 
who had seen early in her business career that the 
people who buy fox furs do not like to have their account 
sent to them for some months. In respect of Brodie, 
Topsail and her mistress were faced with a difficulty. 
Once more Topsail had carried the magic name of 
Gillespie into the tavern, and was met with a flat refusal. 
The account had had its effect. 

“ No stuff,” Brodie wheezed, “ unless ye’ve a line 
frae Gillespa’.” 

They were in despair. Mrs. Strang had given all her 
time to Lonend, going out eagerly and returning listless. 
She had not seen Mrs. Galbraith for more than a fort- 
night. Topsail advised recourse to the Jew. He had 
thrived since the time when necessity had put up the 
shutters on her little shop; was grown broad and fat, 
and wore fine boots with patent toes, and a gold ring. 
Jeck the Traiveller was instructed to send him to the 
close at dark alone. It was a bad business for Topsail, 
for the Jew would name no price in the dark. He would 
have to examine the articles. Besides, the Jew knew 

239 


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GILLESPIE 


intuitively that the business was clandestine. The first 
thing to go was Mrs. Strang’s wedding-dress. Topsail 
wept. The dread of Gillespie made them cautious. In 
half a year the Jew had stripped these women. The 
unsophisticated Topsail had bound him to silence, and 
the Jew learned to threaten them with Gillespie. The 
jewellery alone was left; to which Mrs. Strang clung 
with pathetic insistence. She dreaded this lack of 
adornment when she went to Lonend to meet her lover. 

Topsail and her mistress looked at each other in despair, 
when the servant returned with news of Brodie’s dire 
refusal. 

Gillespie at this moment entered, asking for his dinner. 

“ Here’s your letters,” said his wife. 

There was silence in the kitchen while he opened and 
read them. 

“ What in the name o’ Goad ’s this ? ” his voice was surly 
with rage, his face purple, the veins in his neck swollen. 

“ What is it, Gillespie ? ” 

“ What is it ? What is it no’ ? ” He slapped the blue 
paper with his fingers ; “ an account for twenty-nine pounds 
ten shillings frae Mrs . Tosh . Fox furs twenty-two pounds ; ’ ’ 
he could not suppress his rage, or read the other items. 
“ Dae ye mean to ruin me, ye bauchle ? ” he shouted, 
striding up and down the room. “ Fox furs, fox furs ; 
whaur’s the fox furs ? ” Half demented, his eyes danced 
about the room. “ Goad in heaven, but I hae the wife, 
ye drucken bauchle;” with flaming eyes he stepped 
towards her and clenched his fist. Topsail Janet flashed 
between them, in her hand a soup -ladle. 

“ Daur ye ! daur ye strik’ her ? Deil roast ye, ye misert, 
it’s time ye pey’d somethin’ for her. Ye’ve never gien 
her a stitch since ye were mairrit. Div ye think she’s 
dirt, Lonen’s daughter ? It’s her is the leddy, wi’ her 
muff, the bonniest cratur in the toon. We’ve done ower 


GILLESPIE 


241 


muckle for ye. Daur ye touch her an’ I’ll expose ye 
to the hale toon. It’s me that told her tae get the 
muff.” 

Gillespie slowly unclenched his hand. 

“ It’s you as told her ? ” he sneered. “ Weel, I’ll keep 
it off your wages.” 

“ My wages ! hear till him; my wages ! I never got 
a brown penny frae the day 1 set fut in your hoose. Pey 
me my wages. Whaur’s the price o’ the toys an’ books 
ye stole oot o’ my shop? Ye robber ! Wait you. I’ll 
put the polissman on ye. Ye’ll no haud me doon the 
wy ye dae your wife, poor cratur.” 

Gillespie turned from her flaming face and sat down 
at the table. 

“ Weel, weel, Janet, we’ll say nae mair aboot it. I’m 
hungry.” 

“ Away an’ mek’ your ain meat then,” she flashed. 
“ You, ye misert, tae lift your nief on a puir wumman. 
See her greetin’ her eyes oot.” 

“ Gie me my dinner, Janet.” 

Custom was too strong for Topsail. The slave in her 
rose in obedience. She flashed the plates on the table, 
and spun down the clattering spoons. 

“ Dinna breck the crockery, Janet.” 

“ Shut yeer mooth,” she cried, “ or I’ll scad ye wi’ 
the broth.” She filled his plate with broth. “ Tek’ 
your ain beef and potatoes,” she said. “ Come, Mrs. 
Strang, come awey an’ leave the misert tae say his ain 
grace tae the Almighty.” And taking the arm of 
Mrs. Strang, she led her out of the kitchen, into the front 
parlour. 

“ We needna go back tae Mrs. Tosh,” said Topsail, 
grimly; “he’ll be there as soon as he fills his belly. 
Never mind,” she said cheerily, “I’ll gie the Jew my 
wedding-ring the night.” 

a 


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GILLESPIE 


“You mustn’t do that, Janet ; ” her mistress was 
furtively wiping her eyes. 

“ Ach ! he telt me he’d gie me a brass imitation wan 
instead. Naebody ’ill ken the differ; no’ even Jeck; ’ 
she laughed merrily. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Few in Brieston fathomed Gillespie. He had had the 
best of luck. Times were good. There was no occasion 
for the wolf to cast its sheep’s clothing. He had 
cloaked his covetousness under the guise of opening up 
new channels of commerce. The substantial beginnings 
of a fortune in his hands, and the possibilities of its 
ultimate attainment had sharpened his business faculty 
to a monstrous degree. There was something hawk-like 
in the man, as he hovered over the town spying out chances 
and occasions. He had always been crafty, and had 
veiled his actions so adroitly in hypocrisy, and was so 
cordial, even to his enemies, that he was held as a first- 
rate man. When people have formed such an opinion, 
and find it backed up by ostensibly beneficial public acts, 
they are tenacious, and ready to find reasons for any 
lapse on the part of their idol. Thus, when Andrew 
Rodgers met his death in the sea at Gillespie’s store, the 
hero of the town at first suffered no obloquy or disparage- 
ment. Every one remembered Andy’s unsleeping enmity ; 
and he had in a moment of mad frolic pushed his 
insolence, into the realm of terrorising, for which he had 
suffered. 

But as the affair was discussed, it began to take on 
a more sinister aspect. Lonend went out of his way to 
insinuate the depth of guile in Gillespie’s heart, and 
Mrs. Galbraith expressed herself to Mary Bunch as being 
deeply shocked. She could believe anything of the man. 
Gillespie, outwardly in the noontide of his glory, was now 

243 


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GILLESPIE 


in the innermost heart of the people a man to be watched. 
“ Who was informin’ the Government men about your 
trawl-nets ? ” Lonend asked, and whipped them with 
scorn for their blindness. “ Who was to profit on the 
loss of your nets, if it wasna Gillespie Strang ? ” 

No man can be mixed up in a dire event and come out 
of it scathless, however much he may appear to have 
been the victim of circumstance. There is a voiceless, 
scrutinising, irresistible current of judgment, deep like a 
silently flowing river, about whose banks are whisperings 
and hints. It flows through humanity and influences 
the soul in a profound, inscrutable way, as a river quietly 
influences the country through which it flows. This is 
not public opinion, but is the solidarity of the human 
conscience, educated from time immemorial, and existing 
round the race as a moral atmosphere which, however 
corrupt public or individual life may be, cleanses the 
human race and preserves it in corporate righteousness. 
To this invisible influence is due the common anomaly 
of a man who, dishonest in private life, preserves an 
unflinching rectitude on a public board. 

This deep wave of judgment flowed through Brieston. 
Outwardly, Gillespie had acted in fair play; but men, 
despite themselves, and even avowedly anxious to defend 
him, were haunted with sinister suspicions. Gillespie 
had been too swift and direct. Brieston was menaced 
by such a man. The banks of the river were full of 
whisperings. 

The barrenness of the stores beyond the Quay was 
characteristic of their owner. They had lain in a dilapi- 
dated state for years, and except for putting new locks 
on the doors, and fettering the windows, Gillespie did 
nothing. The factor refused point-blank to spend a 
penny on their repair, and they remained bare, tumble- 
down, thick with grime. Corners were festooned with 


GILLESPIE 


245 


cobwebs; the floors were encumbered with rubbish — 
broken bottles, scraps of old iron, and rotten ropes. 
A daylight corner beside the door, which had once been 
rented from the Laird by a clog-maker, was heaped up 
with a sodden, yellowish mass of wood-chips and sawdust. 
In another corner had been stored part of the library of 
the doctor who had preceded Maclean. This library, 
laid to rest in a cemetery of boxes, had been plundered 
by fishermen and schoolboys. Gillespie had made use 
of the boxes; but a vast quantity of medical journals 
and papers lay scattered over the far-off end of the store. 

At this end there was a door opening directly on the 
Harbour, on which the stores were built. Gillespie, who 
had begun to interest himself in the West Loch Brieston 
oysters, made use of this door for lowering his bags of 
oysters into the sea, to keep them fresh against the orders 
of customers. On the other door, by which ingress to 
the store was obtained, he had a notice inked in large 
letters : 

“ EVERYTHING OFF THE HOOK; 

READY MONEY.” 

In mid-winter, when the herring-fishing season was 
over, the fishermen worked at “ the small ” and “ the 
big lines,” in crews of four men in open boats, some 
fifteen to twenty feet in length. A basket of small 
lines was baited with mussel ; “ the big ” or deep sea 
lines with immature herring. They relied on the small 
lines for whiting, cod, and lithe ; on the big lines— which 
they “ shot ” and left for a night and a day attached to 
buoys — for ling, eel, and skate. 

“ EVERYTHING OFF THE HOOK; 

READY MONEY.” 

Thereafter followed a list of the different fish, and the 


246 


GILLESPIE 


prices, according to their length. Gillespie had learned 
from a Stornoway fish-buyer, who had visited Brieston on 
the chance of curing herring, that this was the method of 
buying fish which English buyers used in Barra. With 
ling, especially if they were under the length, Gillespie 
demanded a cod or a whiting to be thrown in to make up 
his price. 

From the time of the herring-buying incident, Gillespie 
commanded all the fish caught. This was a severer 
blow' to the clique of buyers on the Quay than the loss 
of their herring supply, for the herring market is risky, 
having glorious chances, but at the same time grave losses, 
while in respect of “ white fish ” it was different. The 
market was steady; they knew exactly what to pay for 
the fish on the Quay, and had found in this trafficking — 
especially in ling, eel, and skate — a steady source of 
income. Andrew Rodgers’s rage was extreme at the 
deprivation. His small, yellow eyes had a wolfish 
glitter as he saw the fishermen sell their fish to Gillespie, 
though he offered the same money, and said that his 
silver was as white as Gillespie’s. 

“ No, no, Andy ; it’s black, since the day ye told us 
tae go tae the big market.” 

Rage, however, will not go to market, and Andy 
himself was forced to take to “ the lines,” accompanied 
by Tamar Lusk and Queebec. They were lifting their 
second “ shot ” when that happened to them which had 
happened to Topsail Janet. The dead arose from the 
sea. The body was headless. Tamar, to whose line 
it was attached, fell backwards across the beam, and the 
line slowly sagged from his nerveless hands. 

“ What’s wrong wi’ ye, Tamar? ” wheezed Queebec, 
from the other side of the boat. 

“ Hae ye a knife ? I’ve brought up the Day o’ 
Judgment.” 


GILLESPIE 


247 


The sight of Tamar’s face roused Queebec. He made the 
line he was hauling on fast to the iron thole-pin, and began 
hauling on Tamar’s line. Tamar caught Queebec’s arm. 

“ Let go,” he shouted, “ let go ; it’s a man.” 

At the words, the familiar sea suddenly became 
horrible to these two men. An apparition of the dead 
floated up out of the dark-green depths, appallingly 
significant of the cold, stealthy, sinister deep. Tamar 
shivered and whined on Queebec to cut the line. Brick- 
red patches stood out on Queebec’s high cheek-bones. 
Fear was taking him by the throat, but a spark of man- 
hood flickered in him. 

“ We’ll tek’ him ashore an’ gie him Christian beerial.” 

Tamar covered his face with his hands. 

“No, no,” he moaned; “I canna thole the look o’ 
thon; there’s no heid on it.” 

Andy, who had been silent at the stern, said coolly : 

“ I expect he got a skelp wi’ a propeller on the neck. 
Tek’ a turn roond the thole-pin, Queebec.” 

Queebec, with trembling hand, obeyed. He had no 
stomach, either, for a headless corpse. 

Andy silently took a half-mutchkin bottle from his 
pocket and handed it to Queebec, who having drank, 
gave it to Tamar. 

“ No, no ! I canna pree’t wi’ — wi’ that anchor on to 
the boat.” 

The bottle went back to Andy, and was again passed 
to Queebec. They finished it between them. 

“ What’s the maitter wi’ ye, Tamar ? Were ye never 
’oot sweepin’ for a deid body ? ” When a fisherman is 
drowned, long lines of grappling-hooks are used to 
“ sweep ” for the body. “ What’s the differ between this 
body an’ a fisherman’s ? ” asked Andy in scorn. 

“ I don’t care, I don’t care ; cut the line ; we’re no 
sweepin’, we’re fishin’.” 


248 


GILLESPIE 


Andy thrust forward his lean, dogged face. 

“ The big fella ’’—this was Gillespie’s name on the 
Quay — “ peys for everything off the hook, ready money. 
We’ll gie him something for his money.” Ah, Andy, 
the sea that returns the dead, will it not be avenged ? 

“ Never since I saw white poirpoises off Newfoundland 
did I ever hear the like.” The toughened mariner of 
the ports of the New World was not so squeamish as 
Tamar. He, too, had felt keenly the bite of Gillespie’s 
claws; but there lingered in his mind a wholesome 
respect for Gillespie. 

“ It’s the jyle he’ll be gein’ us,” he said. 

“ Jyle be damned ! ” cried Andy fiercely; “ are we no’ 
tekin’ the body ashore for beerial ? Where wad we leave 
it but in the store ? He’s a damn coward, Gillespie. 
We’ll mek’ him the laughin’ -stock o’ Brieston.” Andy 
began to pull on the line. 

“ For Goad’s sake don’t tek’ it up,” screamed Tamar; 
“ dae ye want the judgment o’ Goad on us ? ” 

“ Shut your mooth,” yelped Andy, “or I’ll heave ye 
over the side.” 

Tamar squirmed forward and buried his face in the 
bow-sheets, when he heard a splash in the water. 

“ Hold him by the shout her a meenut,” he heard Andy 
say; “ up wi’ him noo.” A scraping sound reached his 
ears as the body was hauled in and hastily thrown down 
in the boat. They buoyed the remainder of the lines 
and set sail. Queebec sat with his back to the body 
and faced Andy, who was at the tiller. 

After a long silence Queebec spoke : 

“ I’m no’ carin’ for this work ; we’ll send word to 
Campbell the polisman.” 

“ We’ll do noathin’ o’ the kind. We’ll leave it in 
Gillespie’s store an’ send for him. Where’s the hairm in 
that ? ” 


GILLESPIE 


249 


Silence and the dusk fell on the boat, along which the 
sea mourned. Dark, long, and rakish, she had the 
appearance of a coffin. 

Suddenly Tamar screamed. 

“ It’s movin’, my Goad, it’s movin’ ! ” 

“ Shut up, you damn fool ; dae ye want the hale toon 
to hear ye ? ” They were now in the Harbour mouth. 
The wind was westerly, dead in their teeth. They were 
on the windward tack, and when close inshore at the 
Pier Tamar, springing up in the bow, leapt overboard. 
The boat was about on the other tack. Andy jammed 
down the tiller; but the boat, with little way on her, 
came shivering up in the wind. In the silence they heard 
Tamar swimming, and presently he was scrambling up 
on the rocks. 

“ Hell scud him ! ” said Andy; “ I thought he wad be 
drooned ; ” and put down the helm. When they reached 
the Quay night was come, and the stores were locked. 
They sent a boy to Gillespie to tell him there was fish 
at the Quay. 

“ We’ll cairry this up to the door,” said Andy. 
Queebec, now sober, refused at first the ugly task, and 
eased his conscience as he took the feet. 

“ Andy, you’re just a duvvil.” 

“ I’m no’ the quate sookin duvvil Gillespie is. I’m 
for fightin’ in the open ; an’ if I bate him, it’s you an’ 
Tamar an’ a lot more o’ ye that’ll benefit.” Andy always 
put a plausible face on his viciousness. He, indeed, 
differentiated his methods of attack from Gillespie’s 
with some discernment. Andy leapt with flame in his 
eyes at a breach. Gillespie hated the sound of trumpets 
in his warfare, preferring poison and its arts to bullets 
and their butchery. The very appearance of the two 
antagonists was characteristic of their methods — the 
one lean and fiery, the other stout and cautious. Andy 


250 


GILLESPIE 


sought a present satisfaction, being more concerned with 
revenge than with any future advantage. Gillespie 
explored warily the human heart, and laid his strategy on 
the instability and gullibleness of men. He used men 
as his instruments, for every man could be useful to him 
in some way. It was not his policy to quarrel with men, 
and if on occasion he had to be servile, he extorted his 
price in the end. You will understand the weapons 
with which these men were about to meet. 

“ Any luck, boys ? ” Gillespie’s cheery voice rang out. 

“ Oh ! fairish, fairish.” 

“ That you, Andy ? Are ye no’ for tryin’ the mercat 
yersel’ ? ” There was the faintest tinge of irony in the 
tone. 

“ I’m done wi’ the buyin’, Gillespie.” 

Gillespie unlocked the door of the store. 

“ All right, Andy ; there’s no a great dale in the fush 
ee noo, anyway. Just cairry them in.” They brought 
in the fish, and then the body. 

Gillespie lit one of the naphtha torches used at night on 
the Quay. It smoked, and cast huge, dancing shadows 
across the piles of empty herring-barrels, as if the wings 
of great flying bats darkened the air. When the fish 
were sold, Andy bent down and undid the wet sail. 

“ It’s off the hook,” he said, “ an’ inches weel.” 

Gillespie started at the apparition of horror, and his 
face paled visibly as he took a sudden step backwards. 
This brought him nearest the door. From his position 
he saw straight down between the shoulders of the 
headless trunk. 

“ Are ye mad, Andy ? ” he said in horror. 

“ It’s you that’ll soon be mad, by Goad,” and the 
venom of the man came out. “ What are ye doin’ wi’ 
a corp in your store ? ” This sudden treachery took even 
Queebec by the throat. 


GILLESPIE 


251 


“ Did ye no’ cairry it here ? ” answered Gillespie, who 
was plainly nonplussed. 

“ Not us ; we’re two to wan to sweir against ye ; are we 
no’, Queebec ? ” 

Gillespie turned to Queebec. 

“ Will ye tek’ an oath on Almighty Goad that ye didna 
cairry that in here ? Look at it, the twa o’ ye. The very 
corp wad speak if it could. Look at it ! ” 

As if Gillespie’s index finger were a sign the trunk 
made a perceptible movement. 

“ What damn monkey tricks are ye up tae ? ” cried 
Andy passionately. “ Stand back frae the corp.” 

Gillespie took a step towards the door. 

“ I hevna meddled it, Andy,” he said, with quiet 
assurance. The great shadows hopped across the barrels ; 
in the cold night wind, through the open door, the flame 
of the torch trembled and shook as if in sudden fear. 
Gillespie, with a backward jerk of his foot, flung the door 
shut with a clang that echoed through the cavernous 
store, locked it and put the key in his pocket. “ No 
need for a’ the world to see,” he said. 

Queebec stared fascinated. “ God, it’s movin’, see ! ” 

Andy, who was standing at the foot of the body, 
jumped backwards. Gillespie, stepping to the barrels, 
lifted the torch. His shadow stood out solid and deep. 
He went back to his former position, and keenly scruti- 
nised the trunk at the shoulders. At that moment the 
trunk gave a violent convulsion. 

“ Let me oot o’ this, Gillespie; let me oot ! ” Queebec 
squealed. “ It’s Andy’s work, I tell ye. Ask Tamar 
Lusk.” 

“ The thing’s no’ canny, Queebec ; ” Gillespie took a 
measuring-tape from his pocket. His damp breath 
clouded the murky air. “ But we’ve a bargain to mek’, 
you an’ me ” — he nodded towards Andy ; “ it’s inches 


252 GILLESPIE 

weel, is it ? Is it no’ an inch or two short aboot the 
heid?” 

Gillespie did not want to measure the body. He 
desired a pretext to get nearer it to verify his suspicion. 

The wind suddenly went moaning through the empty 
barrels. Its cold wave passed as ice on the napes of 
their necks. Queebec raised his hand to his cheek with 
a nervous gesture. The hand suffered from a sea-boil, 
and was swathed in a dirty rag. He began gnawing 
the rag. 

“ Gillespie,” he muttered sullenly, “ gie me the 
key.” 

Gillespie turned on him a bland face. 

“ Are ye no’ for your pey, Queebec ? ye’ve had a touch 
the night.” He bent down to the corpse and laid the 
brass edge of the tape on the neck. The frayed remnant 
of a dongaree jacket clothed it. As the tape touched the 
sodden flesh, a violent shudder went through the trunk, 
and a look of understanding passed quickly over Gillespie’s 
face. He had discovered from his position at the head 
of the body what the others were unable to see. 

“ Here, Andy, my man, hold it quate ; the thing’s gey 
an’ ill tae measure.” 

Andy, shrouded in the gloom, was making little sucking 
sounds, which froze Queebec’s blood. An unseen terror 
lay behind the monstrous dancing shadows. Queebec 
slipped behind Gillespie, and began kicking the door with 
his big sea-boots. 

“ Nae use o’ that, Queebec ; there’s no’ a livin’ sowl 
on the Quay a dark night lik’ this.” He rose to his feet, 
and stood directly between Queebec and the body. 
“ Ay,” he said, “ it’s the size o’ a big conger nate ; I 
winna cheat ye in the price o’ this ; no’ for a’ the world. 
Fower feet aucht an’ a half. A fine, upstandin’ man he 
must ha’ been.” 


GILLESPIE 


253 


He pocketed the tape, took some silver coins from 
his pocket and counted them. Some he put back to his 
pocket, the others he held in his open palm. 

“ Here, boys ! here’s the blood money.” 

Queebec’s voice rang out in a scream. “ Gie me the 
key o’ the door.” 

“ Dinna be blate, Andy. Come and tek’ the siller. 
See an’ dinna drink it. Maybe ye’d better put it in the 
plate come Sunday. Eh ! what was the minister on 
last Sunday, Queebec ? Ou ay ! I mind noo. Judas 
sellin’ his Master. But ye sell a cauld corp as hevna’ 
got the eyes to see ye. Look at it, Andy, look at it 
movin’ again.” 

Queebec, enthralled by horror, turned his face from 
the door, and saw across the smoky glare a great shadow 
swooping like a thing of menace across the ceiling. 
Gillespie saw his terror-stricken eyes, the flash of their 
blood-shot whites; but was too late. The iron fist, 
hardened on the Spanish Main, swung like a hammer. 

“ Ye’ll gie me the key noo.” 

Gillespie heard the maddened scream as he fell with 
a smothered groan across the dead body. His right hand 
shot out spasmodically ; the torch flew from it in a down- 
ward curve, hit one of the barrels, and went out. The 
store was thick with inky darkness. 

“ Good Goad ! I’ve done for him.” 

Queebec staggered back against the pile of barrels 
which had been left in disorder since the day on which 
Gillespie had made his advent as a buyer. It trembled 
and rocked; flattened out, and with a crash gave way. 
Losing this support to his back, Queebec fell. A hot, 
stabbing pain went through his head. He felt blood on 
his cheek. Then there was silence in the store, save for 
the sound of a barrel which was rolling down the gentle 
slope of the floor, rolling quietly, as if seeking furtively 


254 


GILLESPIE 


to escape from the confusion. When it ceased rolling, 
the sound of the sea along the walls broke in on the store 
with a hissing noise that died away into a feathery 
silence. Queebec rose to his feet, and stood like a block 
of granite, listening to hear Gillespie breathe, but he 
could hear nothing — nothing but the monotonous wash 
of the sea. 

“ Andy,” he whispered into the dark. A water-rat 
that had been routed out of its corner by the fall of 
the barrels scuttled across the floor towards the corpse. 

Queebec, shivering and peering forward, cried, “ Hiss ” 

Suddenly there was a loud crash. Andy, creeping down 
the floor, had dislodged the remainder of the pile of barrels. 
Queebec put out his hands in front of his face. 

“ Is that you, Andy ? Have you a match ? ” 

“ No ; ” the voice came from far away. 

Queebec did not smoke. Andy had given his box of 
matches to Tamar Lusk in the line boat. 

“ Andy ! can ye hear him breathin’ ? ” 

44 Who ? ” 

44 Gillespie.” 

44 Gillespie ! where’s Gillespie ? ” the voice quavered 
with fear. 

44 He’s lyin’ across thon thing. I gied him a clink on 
the temple. He wadna gie me the key.” Queebec was 
hurriedly justifying himself, to stifle the terror that rose 
in his gorge. 44 Dae ye hear him movin’ ? ” 

There was no answer from Andy. 

44 Andy ! Andy ! Will ye no’ speak ? ” 

44 Keep clear o’ me,” wailed Andy. 44 Ye’ve done for 
him. I’m no goin’ to be hanged for you.” 

44 No ! no ! ” cried Queebec ; 44 1 didna mean anything. 
He wadna gie me the key; he wadna gie me the key. 
I dinna strik’ him that hard. Where are ye, Andy ? ” 
The silence was solid about them. Through the 


GILLESPIE 255 

impenetrable gloom a faint noise came to their pricked - 
up ears. The thing was moving, moving. 

“ Oh ! my Goad, Andy, it’s crawlin’ to me ! ” Queebec 
screamed, and doubled up began to scurry forward 
towards the far end of the store. 

Half running, he tripped and fell over Andy, who rose 
upon his knees, and in a blind fury caught Queebec by 
the throat. “ I’ll no’ swing for you ; I’ll no’ swing for 
you.” 

The two men, breathing hard, struggled in the darkness. 
Queebec, the more powerful, shook off Andy and pinned 
him by the two shoulders to the floor. His blood was 
on fire. His fist swung up and came down full on Andy’s 
mouth with a sickening thud. “Ye bloody fool ; wad 
ye throttle me?” 

In the darkness there was a sound of blood gurgling. 

Andy wriggled beneath the powerful hands. “ Let 
me go, Queebec, ye’re killin’ me.” 

A wave of terror again swept over Queebec. Was he 
to have another man’s death at his door ? With a groan 
he released Andy, who after a prolonged silence 
whispered : 

“ Queebec, we’re a pair o’ waens. Nobody saw us 
cornin’ in here. Dae ye no’ see ? If we get oot quietly 
they’ll find Gillespie in the morn — alone wi’ — wi’ ” 

“ What o’ Tamar ? ” 

“ Tamar be damned ! He’ll no’ speak.” 

Queebec shivered with hope. “ Hoo can we mand 
oot o’ here ? ” 

“ Go an’ rype him for the key,” Andy whispered, and 
swallowed blood. 

“ I canna ! I canna ! I’ve done for him. Go on 
you.” 

“ Me ! Me ! Touch thon; did ye no’ hear it movin’ 
in the dark ? ” 


256 


GILLESPIE 


Again they listened, as from without came up the long 
sob of the sea. Andy gripped Queebec by the arm. 
“ The back door,” he whispered. “ I clean forgot; the 
back door.” 

The plowter of the sea rose along the wall. 

“ The tide’s in,” said Queebec ; “ hear to it.” 

“ I’ll face twenty tides before thon thing. It can 
crawl, Queebec,” and Queebec, with his blood curdling, 
began to wriggle to the far end of the store. 

“ Wait for me, Queebec ; ” the other followed and ran 
his head into a barrel. He leapt back, his nerves quiver- 
ing ; but terror of being left behind goaded him on. He 
rose to his feet and plunged head-foremost over the 
barrel, ploughing his wrist and arm on the concrete floor. 

He backed into the clammy wall and crept upon some 
broken bottles. He was bleeding at the mouth, at the 
wrist and the hands. A cold wind suddenly blew on 
his face; the sea-draught from the door. He stood up, 
fumbling with both hands, found the sneck and jerked 
the door open. They saw the sky, placid with stars 
and the blue-black night, and gulped in great draughts 
of the brine-laden air. 

“ God in heaven, I’m seeck; let us get oot o’ here,” 
said Queebec. He sat down to take off his big sea-boots, 
and found the rope, which Gillespie had attached to a 
bag of oysters, steeping in the sea. Queebec took off 
his boots and jacket, gripped the rope, and swung himself 
over the edge. 

“ Queebec ! Queebec ! wait for me; I canna sweem.” 

Suddenly a barrel came crashing to the floor. 

“ Goad Almighty, it’s crawlin’ among the barrels.” 
Andy cast a look over his shoulder into the dark, then, 
holding his face between his hands, jumped feet first into 
the sea. Down ! down ! he sank. A black, thundering 
mass roared in his ears. His head was about to burst, 


GILLESPIE 


257 


when he shot gasping to the surface. Choking with 
blood and brine, he saw the peaceful stars glittering high 
overhead. Something gripped him by the hair ; and the 
church clock began slowly booming through the night. 

“ Hold on to the rope, or ye’ll droon,” a voice was say- 
ing. The salt water was nipping his bleeding hands, but 
he gripped the rope and leaned hard against the wall. 

“ Are ye right ? ” he heard the voice again. He tried 
to speak, and nodded to the sea, which was rippling about 
his shoulders. He had never seen it that colour before — 
blue like steel in the starlight. A little wave splashed 
in his face, and stung his eyes. He swallowed some salt 
water. 

“ Are ye hearin’ me, Andy ? ” 

“ Ay.” 

“ Hae ye a good grup o’ the rope ? ” the voice was 
somewhere above his head. He thought it was Queebec’s, 
and would like to climb up to the voice, but his big 
sea-boots were heavy with water, and he had to keep 
swallowing salt water or blood, he did not know which. 
With the tip of his tongue he discovered that some of 
his teeth had disappeared. 

“ Ye’ve knocked my teeth doon my throat,” he 
whispered to the water; and the little plashing waves 
mocked him, and licked his face. One bigger than the 
others took his breath 'away for a minute. He was 
feeling the cold boring into his bones, like a hot gimlet. 

“ Ye’re sure ye’ve a good grup, Andy ? ” 

4 4 Ay,” he said, to this pestering voice overhead. 
Then something that was holding him by the hair of the 
head let go, and he slipped down head beneath into the 
water. It was terribly black now and choking him. 
With a supreme effort he pulled himself up by the rope. 
The heel of his big sea-boot caught in an edge of the stone. 
He felt it supporting him. He tried with his other heel 
s 


258 


GILLESPIE 


to find a comer in the wall ; but the wall was smooth. 
There was a drumming sound in his ears. He thought 
it must be the church bell ringing ; but the bell had 
ceased on the last stroke of midnight, and a vast silence 
covered the face of the sky. 

“ It’s no high watter yet; we canna hing here a’ 
night,” the voice above him was saying; “ they’ll miss 
Gillespie an’ come lookin’ for him. The sooner we’re 
oot o’ here the better.” Andy could not follow the voice. 
The thundering bells in his ears were drowning its 
nagging tones. 

“ Dae ye hear me, Andy ? I’ll sweem to the Quay 
an’ come back wi’ a punt. Hold on for your life noo. 
I’ll be back in twenty meenuts. Don’t let go, or ye’ll 
droon.” 

There was no answer. 

“ Are ye hearin’ me, Andy ? ” screamed Queebec, in 
fear. 

Andy heard the words. They seemed to drop down on 
him from some height beneath the stars ; and he was 
weary of this terrible voice. 

“ Ay, ay,” he muttered, and closed his eyes. Some- 
thing dark shot past him. He heard a splash in the water. 
The waves broke on his face, and blinded him. He 
swallowed more salt water. The salt still blinded his 
eyes, and he let his left hand go from the rope to rub them. 
This movement dislodged his heel from the protruding 
stone of the wall. He could not find it again. He was 
like a man being hung. The thought stirred some 
association in his brain. It was Queebec who was to be 
hung for killing Gillespie. Gillespie ! He remembered 
and shivered in the water. He did not feel the cold 
now from the level, dark-blue sea that stretched away 
for miles. Far off across the water he saw a light burning 
in a window of the Barracks, and wished he was there. 


GILLESPIE 


259 


He moved his body, and at the movement thought some 
one was pouring water down the legs of his trousers. 
His legs were getting rigid like iron bars ; his arms were 
terribly weary with the strain. Something cold was 
lap, lapping about his throat. He tried to pull himself 
up from it; and his legs swam away from under him. 
The weight was now pulling his arms out of their sockets. 
His eyes closed; he felt sleepy. Why was he clinging 
here, with such a sickening weight on his arms, and nothing 
beneath his rigid legs ? That dark-blue mass at his chin 
was like a great, soft pillow. God ! how he longed for 
his bed ! His head was slowly turning round. It must 
be the rope that was twisting. The stars in front of 
his face above the hills were wheeling about in the sky 
like sparks stirred about in a big pot. He could not keep 
his eyes open. He was numb and wet and tired. God ! 
to be in bed, and the soft, dark pillow below him ! 
The head nodded to the stars, the mouth opened, the 
fingers relaxed. What a weight was off his arms ! Slowly 
the hands slid down the rope, and with a gurgling 
sound the white, wet face disappeared in the dark, 
silent water. There was a feeble beating of the hands 
for a moment, a fluttering towards the rope, one or two 
bubbles rose to the surface. . . . 

A punt was being quietly sculled towards the rope. 
The sculler drew in his oar, and crept froward. 

“ Andy,” he whispered. 

There was no answer. 

The bow of the punt drifted into the rope. Queebec 
stared upwards, following the length of the rope in the 
starlight till it disappeared over the edge at the door. 
He climbed up and shouted into the dark, terrible 
silence. 

“ Goad in heaven, he’s gone ! ” 


260 


GILLESPIE 


Queebec, his hands on fire with their rush over the 
rope, pushed the punt away from the wall, and peered 
down into the dark water. He could see nothing. He 
kept staring at the water, paralysed with terror. Suddenly 
Andy’s words hammered on his brain, “ Nobody saw us 
cornin’ here.” 

“ Nobody saw us, nobody saw us,” he sobbed ; jumped 
to the oar, and began sculling to the Quay. 


CHAPTER XVII 


Brieston was full of the wildest rumours. Gillespie 
had been found in the early morning by Jeck the 
Traiveller lying in the store beside a dead man, who 
had broken into the store and had felled Gillespie. 
Gillespie, in turn, had killed the man. All day crowds 
hung about the store, peering in through the key-hole, 
and craning their necks at the broken windows. All 
they could see was a litter of barrels on the floor. Excite- 
ment reached a pitch of frenzy when two boys, who had 
been scavenging along the seaweed of the walls of the 
store at low water for whelks, came running up the 
Quay with scared, white faces, crying, “ There’s a deid 
man on the shore ; there’s a deid man on the shore.” 

The agent of the luggage steamer, one of the porters, 
and three fishermen who were at the “ Shipping Box ” 
ran down the Quay. Willie Allan, who had a shop at 
the Quay, across the road from the “ Shipping Box,” 
hearing the hubbub, scurried to his door, and seeing men 
running down the Quay, shouted to the Fishery Officer 
whose office was next to his shop that somebody was 
drowning. Both set to running. Windows were flung 
up in the Quay tenements. The head of Andy’s wife 
appeared with the others. The stairs sounded with 
the feet of hurrying men. The two boys ran up Harbour 
Street, shouting their news everywhere. In a quarter 
of an hour the shore was black with people around the 
body of Andy. He lay face upwards, with the head 
pointing in the direction of the Harbour mouth. Some 

261 


262 


GILLESPIE 


of his teeth were missing. The thin, bleached face, 
and wet, wiry hair, the broken mouth and mauled hands, 
in the centre of this group of curious, healthy humanity, 
gave a sense of pathos to that forlorn shore and its burden, 
and silenced the babble of tongues in the inner ring of 
men. Those on the fringe were eagerly inquiring what 
was wrong, and pushing restlessly to the front to glut 
the eye. 

“ It’s Andy Rodgers,” went from mouth to mouth. 
The baulked fringe was determined on a sight of the 
body. The crowd heaved and swayed. Willie Allan 
flung his apron over his shoulder, and anger flashed in 
his eyes. 

44 Stop that shovin’ ! ” he shouted; 44 did ye never see 
a deid man before ? ” The crowd became suddenly 
still. 44 One of you,” he shouted, 4 4 go for Dr. Maclean, 
and tell the policeman.” 

Sandy the Fox pressed forward, stared down at Andy, 
and took another step beside the body. Willie Allan 
caught him by the shoulder and spun him round. 44 Here 
you, get out of this ; let nobody touch the body till the 
doctor comes.” The Fox showed his teeth, edged his 
way through the crowd, and hurried up the Quay. 

Andy’s wife, a large, buxom woman, was at the close, 
talking with two neighbours, and Andy’s only son was 
hanging about near at hand. 

44 What’s wrong, Sandy,” he shouted, 44 doon at the 
Quay ? ” 

Again Sandy the Fox showed his teeth, and glanced at 
the group of women. 

44 Your mother’s a weeda,” he snarled, and passed, 
loping. 

Mrs. Rodgers put her left hand on her breast, and her 
face became as chalk. Her knees tottered. She swayed 
a little and lurched forward, gripping at the shoulder of 


GILLESPIE 


263 


her nearest neighbour. “ Aw ! Dhia ! Dhia ! tek’ me 
home. Aw ! Aw ! Aw ! ” 

They supported her in through the close and up the 
stair, and laid her on the kitchen bed. 

Dr. Maclean had been roused through the night by 
Jeck the Traiveller, and had seen in Gillespie’s store a 
sight which he would never forget. He had not gone 
back to bed, but sat till day whitened the window of 
his smoking-room. He had watched Gillespie as that 
man slowly came round to consciousness. “ Queebec,” 
Gillespie muttered, and lapsed into pertinacious silence. 
Maclean noticed that he betrayed no fear or horror 
of his ghastly companion of the night. 

At eight o’clock in the morning, Maclean knocked at 
Queebec’s door. He knew the house very well. Some 
five months before Queebec had come in the dead of night 
imploring Maclean to come and see his daughter. 
“ She’s in fair agony, doctor.” 

Maclean went downstairs, made up a medicine in 
the surgery, and accompanied Queebec. When he 
reached the house, he found the youngest daughter in 
bed and her two sisters applying hot plates over the 
region of the stomach. A glance told Maclean what 
the trouble was, and he stood with his back to the fire, 
watching in silence for a few minutes the pathetic efforts 
of the sisters. 

“ Put the plate away, my girl,” said Maclean ; “ you’re 
doing more harm than good.” Within two hours Mac- 
lean had delivered the girl of a child. He had not 
forgotten Queebec, nor had Queebec forgotten him, and 
was prepared to go through fire and water for the 
doctor. 

It was a natural thing for him to find Queebec in bed 
at eight in the morning; not so natural that he should 
find Queebec ailing. 


264 


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“ I’ve a heavy cold lyin’ on my chest, doctor,” Queebec 
said, coughing. 

Maclean watched him musingly for a moment. “You 
look as if you had seen a ghost,” he said. 

Queebec . visibly trembled beneath the bed-clothes. 
Maclean stepped across the room, picked up a small 
mirror hanging over the sink, and coming back, handed 
it in silence to Queebec, who took one glance. 

“ My Goad ! ” he moaned. His hair was white. 

Maclean took the mirror out of the shaking hand and 
returned it to its place. “ Take off the buttons,” he 
said, “ till I have a look at you.” 

Queebec ’s trembling hands could not lay hold of the 
buttons. Maclean undid them, rolled back the striped 
shirt and semet, and putting a forefinger on Queebec ’s 
chest, began to tap it with his other finger. In this way 
he traversed the chest. 

“ Turn over on your face.” He rolled up Queebec’s 
shirt and semet, and laid his ear in the region of the 
shoulder-blades. 

“Take a deep breath,” he commanded; “another.” 
He pulled down the garments. “ That’ll do,” he said. 

Queebec rolled over and faced him. “ Anything 
wrong, doctor ? ” 

“ You’ve got a complication, Queebec. I’ll manage 
to cure part of it. There’s some mischief at the base of 
the right lung.” He tugged at his moustache, watching 
Queebec. “ You’ve another trouble,” he said. 

“ What is it, doctor ? ” 

Maclean drew in a chair to the bedside. “ I don’t 
know,” he answered; “it’s left your hair white.” 

“ Oh, doctor, doctor ! ” Queebec covered his face with 
his hands. 

“Where were you last night ? You’ve caught a bad cold.” 

Queebec’s eyes stared at the doctor, beseeching mercy, 


GILLESPIE 


265 


pity, help. “ I wasna to blame, Goad knows. It was 
Andy Rodgers began it. Ask Tamar Lusk.” 

“ Who struck Gillespie ? ” Maclean saw the sudden 
look of fear leap into Queebec ’s eyes — the look of a beast 
cowering as it waits the death-stroke. The man’s face 
was agonised with terror. 

“ Don’t be afraid, Queebec,” said Maclean soothingly. 
“ Gillespie’s all right. Some one stunned him. He’ll 
be up to-morrow.” 

A sudden glory irradiated the miserable man’s face, 
and tears welled up in his grey eyes. He made an effort 
to speak as he gripped the doctor’s hand. 

“ Doctor, doctor ! ” He took a long, deep breath. 
“ Oh ! I’m a new man.” 

After a little Maclean said, “ Now, Queebec, tell me 
everything.” And Queebec, concealing nothing, told 
the grim story of the past night. When it was ended, 
Maclean said : 

“ I can’t go to Andy just now ; I’ll have to wait till 
I’m sent for.” But he paid another visit to the store, 
examined the headless corpse, put his hand in at the 
hole where the head had been severed from the body, and 
caught something slippery. With an exclamation of 
disgust he pulled out a black eel, which had burrowed 
in through the sodden trunk, swung the serpent-fish by 
the tail, and brought its head crashing down on the 
concrete floor. It gave a convulsive movement down the 
length of its body, and lay still. With the toe of his boot, 
Maclean lifted it over beside the dead body, covered the 
body again with the sail, and glancing at the back door 
of the store, which stood open, and at a pair of big sea- 
boots standing there, went out, and locked the door 
behind him. An observer would have noticed him glance 
up at Andy’s window as he passed up Harbour Street 
homewards. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Dr. Maclean had been summoned, and hurrying 
down Harbour Street, was met by the flying son of Andy. 
Periodically men, boys, and sometimes women, are seen 
running up the street. No one thinks of them as un- 
gainly at such a time, because they may be racing with 
Death for a precious life. Especially terrible is the sound 
of running footsteps in the deserted streets at night. 
Maclean hurried to the help of Mrs. Rodgers, who was 
conscious again. 

“ Aw, Goad peety me,” she moaned. 

“ He died like a hero,” said the doctor, “ trying to 
save Queebec.” 

And that was all which the public ever heard from 
Dr. Maclean of the mystery of the store. 

“ Here’s the doctor ! here’s the doctor ! ” The manner 
in which the crowd made way for him was their testimony 
to their faith. 

Maclean did not so much as touch the body. “ He’s 
been dead for twelve hours,” he said. 

Brieston was in a ferment. Where was Gillespie ? 
Who was the dead man in the store ? Who had struck 
Andy on the mouth and sent him headlong out of the store 
into the water ? No ! it couldn’t be that. His hands 
and his wrist were cut. From the Barracks to the 
“Shipping Box” groups of people lived with rumour; 
and slowly, pervasively, a sinister opinion of Gillespie 
began to take possession of men’s minds. Why had he 
been in the store so late at night? Ugly rumours of 
his avaricious dealings with Galbraith of Muirhead got 

266 


GILLESPIE 


267 


abroad. It was hinted that he had arrested the furniture 
of a small farmer in the country for debt without 
authority. The farmer had called him a thief, and 
Gillespie threatened the farmer with an action for libel 
unless he was paid fifty pounds. The unsophisticated 
man was ruined. 

“ It was a canty wee neeboorly through-gaen, but an’ 
ben toon till he came,” said Ned o’ the Horn. 

“ You’ll scratch me an’ I’ll scratch you sort o’ toon,” 
answered old Sandy, on the defensive for his hero. 
“ We’d never ken oor ain faults if it wasna for the likes 
o’ him. It’s good whiles to hae a breeze.” 

“ Weel,” flashed Ned o’ the Horn, to whom the opinions 
of the Pump were retailed by his better-half, Black 
Jean, “ I lik’ a breeze that’s clean. No’ thon wee 
yeuky eyes aye watchin’ ye, an’ his hand aye claut, claut, 
clautin’. You bate he dinna buy your herrin’, Sandy, 
wi’ his eyes shut. Poor Andy that’s deid an’ gone 
could hae bought them if he’d a store hotched wi’ stock 
an’ a puffer ready to mek’ the run. He didna tell ye 
what they came oot at in Glesca.” 

Gillespie stood in bad odour. The Butler had an 
ill-omened story of Gillespie’s dealings with Mirren 
Johnstone, when her father had died. Mary Bunch had 
it from Nan at Jock, and told Mrs. Galbraith. Campion, 
the new schoolmaster, had told the Butler, who did not 
know how Campion had got the story — very likely at 
Lonend. Mirren came into the shop with the stains of 
tears like blisters yet in the hollow of her cheeks, and 
asking for material for a black dress, burst into tears. 

“ What ails ye, Mirren? ” asked Gillespie, picking up 
the measuring-yard. 

“ Fait her ’s — deid.” 

“ Ay ! ay ! that’s a peety. I never heard he was so 
near his end.” 


268 


GILLESPIE 


“ Och ! och ! no, no. He rose at the turn o’ the 
nicht;” she bravely winked the tears away. “My 
mother cried me ben. She was frightened to be alone 
wi’ him. 

“ ‘ Betty,’ he sez tae my mither, * that’s fine medicine 
the doctor’s gien me this time.’ 

“ * Will ye no’ tek’ a wee drap spirits then, faither, 
seein’ ye’re up ? ’ I sez, for mother was fair in the 
nerves. 

“ ‘ No,’ sez he, ‘ I’m wantin’ to sleep ; ’ and he went 
back to bed.” The girl burst out sobbing, “ an’ — oh — 
oh — he was deid afore he’d the clothes aboot him.” 

“Ay, ay ! ” Gillespie ran his finger along the yard; 
“ it was a sudden call.” 

The girl dried her eyes with the corner of her apron. 

“ Mither an’ me wad lik’ some mournin’s.” 

“ How much did ye say ? ” 

“ Six an’ a half yairds for me, an’ seven for my mither.” 

“ A black merino ? ” in suave inquiry. 

The girl assented. 

“ Cloth’s up ee noo, wi’ the drought in Australyia.” 
He swept the polished counter with his palm ; “ one 
shilling and tenpence the yard.” 

He scribbled on a coarse piece of paper. “ That’ll 
come oot at one pound four shillings and ninepence.” 

“ I hevna the money,” the girl faltered, shrinking 
back from the counter. All things must give way to 
the Angel of Death, they had thought in their misery, 
looking down on the Angel’s marble-sculptured creation 
on the bed. The mines of Bonanza would surely unlock 
their treasures at the omnipotent sweep of its chiselling 
wings. 

“I’m dootin’, Mirren, I canna obleege ye ; I’d like 
to fine, but thae traivellers frae Glesca is fair harasshin’ 
me for money.” 


GILLESPIE 


269 


His voice was pleading with the girl who was stunned. 
She had not dreamed that any one could confront death 
with a denial. With a fleeting look of fear she swept 
his face, and shrank farther back, shame driving her to 
the door. 

Gillespie recalled her. “ Ye needna be in such a 
hurry, Mirren. Your faither an’ me was good f reends.” 

She faced him again with hesitant eyes. 

“ I mind o’ him tellin’ me he was insured.” 

The light of hope sprang in the girl’s face. 

“ Ay ! he was insured on fifty pounds.” 

44 Was it fifty ? I didna ken the amount. Come awa’ 
ower to the other coonter.” 

This counter was at the back of the shop, away from 
the lane of customers, where Gillespie kept the “ dry 
goods.” He measured, cut, and made up the cloth in 
a parcel, the girl all this while answering his questions 
in low monosyllables. 

“Was the rent all paid ? ” 

“ Were the rates an’ taxes paid ? ” 

Gillespie carried the parcel to the front counter and 
disappeared. Through a small glass window, which 
gave on the shop, she saw his head bowed over his desk. 
Presently he returned, and handed the girl an I 0 U 
with security on the insurance policy. A penny stamp 
was affixed at the bottom. 

4 4 Just run up an’ tell your mother to write her name 
there.” He laid the point of the pen on the face of the 
effigy of the queen. 

44 Ye’ll see I made it oot at Is. lOd. I canna be lyin’ 
oot my money, Mirren, wi’ thae traivellers frae Grennock 
an’ Glesca harasshin’ me every Monday. An’ I’ve just 
put in the penny for the stamp. Poor lassie ! it’s a 
peety o’ ye lossin’ your faither. It’s kin’ o’ a wee thing 
alarmin’, a sudden call lik’ that. I’ll miss him aboot 


270 


GILLESPIE 


the corner. Him an’ me used to hae a crack whiles. 
Tell your mother I’ll be at the funeral.” 

The story went through Brieston like wild-fire. 

“ Ay ! that’s the man,” said Lonend ; “ thon corbie ! 
thon white laugh ! ” 

Brieston was baulked and angry. Watty Foster had 
brought the Fiscal from Ardmarkie; but no one was 
allowed into the store except the doctor, Gillespie — who 
passed down Harbour Street with a heavy, pondering 
look and pouched eyes — Tamar Lusk, Willie Allan, the 
Fishery Officer, the porter at the Quay, and Queebec. 
Queebec’s appearance astonished the town. “ He’s as 
white ’s a sheep, an’ hoastin’ lik’ an auld craw.” The 
Quay head was dense with men. The clock in the 
parish church was booming the hour of two when the 
door of the store was reopened, and Gillespie came out 
alone. In a little he was followed by every one except 
the doctor and the Fiscal. Queebec and Tamar walked 
on together, speaking in a low voice. They refused to 
give any information, and Brieston gnawed ravenously 
on its curiosity. The Fiscal caught the mailcoach back 
to Ardmarkie, and Maclean drove to one of his cases in 
the country. The next day, being Sunday, the two 
ministers read an intimation requesting the people to 
attend a double funeral on Monday afternoon at three 
o’clock, one funeral to be from the Good Templars’ Hall. 

On the Saturday, when the door was locked, the 
Fiscal, directing attention to the unknown body, asked 
Gillespie how it came to be in his store. Gillespie 
shook his head. “ Maybe,” he said softly, “ Queebec 
here can tell us.” Queebec, with underlip trembling 
violently, looked hesitatingly at the doctor. 

“ Tell the Procurator Fiscal what you told me yesterday 
morning, Queebec. Keep nothing back.” 


GILLESPIE 


271 


“ It will be as well,” warned the Fiscal, “ to make 
a clean breast of everything, my man.” 

With many stumblings, Queebec once more repeated 
the tale. The man looked so haggard and spent that 
in the midst of the narrative the Fiscal invited him to sit 
on a herring-box. 

“ An’ that,” ended the white-haired, broken man, on 
a sob, “ — that’s the strucken truth ; my hands tae Goad.” 
He lifted his palms upwards. 

“ I believe you, my man,” said the Fiscal, who made 
no further comment, but questioned Willie Allan and the 
others as to the finding of Andy’s body. He examined 
the back door and the rope, and noted Queebec’s big sea- 
boots and jacket. The blackened torch stood out against 
a barrel as a funereal witness to the truth of these things. 

“ Have you anything to add ? ” the Fiscal turned 
sharply on Gillespie. 

“ Weel,” he answered in an insinuating voice, and 
looking at Queebec ; “I might hae a case for damages 
an’ assault against this man.” 

“ If you’re wise you’ll let that dead dog lie ; ” the 
Fiscal cast a withering look on Gillespie. “ In my 
opinion the outcome of this unfortunate affair lies at 
your door.” 

“ I don’t a’thegeither see that,” Gillespie answered 
smoothly. 

“ Come, come, my man,” said the Fiscal, with a 
rising intonation; “ you were here in this gloomy place ” 
— he cast a glance round the store — “ late at night with 
a locked door, and you saw the corpse moving. Do you 
tell me you weren’t afraid ? ” 

“ No’ me ; it was Andy an’ this man ” — he pointed to 
Queebec — “ brought it. I wasna feart. It was the 
Judgment o’ Goad on them.” He frowned austerely 
like a Calvinistic divine. 


272 


GILLESPIE 


“ That’s not the case, Mr. Strang,” said Maclean. 
“You weren’t afraid because you were standing at the 
head of the corpse.” 

“ It had nae heid, doctor ” — politely. 

“Be careful, my man,” warned the Fiscal; “you’re 
in a court just now. Don’t indulge in facetious 
expressions.” 

“Well, where the head should have been ” — Maclean’s 
tone was touchy — “ and you saw the tail of the eel.” 

“ What ! what ! what, doctor ! ” ejaculated Willie 
Allan. 

“ Silence ! ” commanded the Fiscal. 

Maclean touched with his boot the dead fish, on which 
Queebec’s eyes were riveted. “ I found this inside the 
body, alive. Mr. Strang knew it was there. He ought 
to have told these men.” 

The Fiscal looked at Gillespie with a severe face. 

“ Do you hear, sir % ” 

Gillispie’s ruddy face paled. 

“ It served them right,” he said doggedly, “ for their 
dirty trick.” He collected himself. “ I was goin’ to 
tell them when Queebec struck me.” 

“ You were too late,” said the Fiscal drily. 

“ Too late to bring the dead to life,” Maclean said 
musingly. 

The Fiscal addressed Gillespie. 

“ I cannot, sir, bring you under the penalty of the 
law for what you failed to do, but I have no words to 
express my sense of your vicious conduct. You wished 
to pose as a man of courage. You were an arrant 
coward, a bigger coward than this man who was afraid. 
In my opinion a man’s death lies morally at your door. 
The law, unfortunately, cannot punish you. I leave 
you in the hands of God.” The Fiscal spoke with a severe, 
unstudied simplicity, which deeply affected his hearers. 


GILLESPIE 


273 


“ Are ye feenished wi’ me? ” Gillespie asked with 
a veiled sneer. “ I’m thrang the day, after being laid 
up yesterday wi’ assault.” 

“ I am, sir; and I hope I shall never have to do with 
you again.” 

“ If you hae,” answered Gillespie, unabashed, “ I 
expec’ Queebec ’ill be to blame again,” and casting a 
venomous glance at the doctor, he turned and left the 
store. Little did Gillespie know under what terrible 
circumstances he would face the Procurator-Fiscal 
again. 

“ Well, gentlemen, we’re finished. I thank you for 
your attendance. I need scarcely impress upon you the 
advisability of keeping silence about what we have 
heard. The death of Andrew Rodgers is due to mis- 
adventure. The death of this man ” — the Fiscal stopped 
and regarded the headless trunk — “ Alec ” — he lifted his 
eyes to the doctor’s face — “ what do you think severed 
the head? ” 

Before the doctor could speak, Tamar Lusk quavered : 

“ I expec’, my lord, he got a kick wi’ the propeller.” 

“ Ah, yes ! I see. You’ll incorporate that, Alec, in 
your report for his lordship.” 

The doctor nodded. 

Willie Allan picked up the dead eel by the tail, and 
going to the back door, flung it far out into the sea. 

The local weekly paper, on the following Saturday, 
had a paragraph headed in large type : 

“ THE MYSTERY OF THE BRIESTON 
CURING-SHED 

“ One of the strangest events which has happened 
within living memory, occurred at Brieston last 
Friday night. Some line fishermen, on lifting their 

T 


274 


GILLESPIE 


lines, brought up the body of a man without a head, 
who is supposed to have fallen out of a Clyde steamer, 
and was decapitated by the propeller. In attempting 
to get their gruesome find into the curing-shed of 
Mr. Gillespie Strang, the well-known merchant, one 
of the fishermen, Mr. Andrew Rodgers, lost his 
balance and fell into the water. Before the other 
two men could get down to his rescue from the store 
the unfortunate man had disappeared. He was 
wearing big sea-boots at the time, which accounts 
for the swiftness with which he was drowned. The 
sad event has cast a deep gloom over all the town, 
of which Mr. Rodgers was an esteemed and highly 
respected native. He leaves a widow and a son, to 
whom the profoundest sympathy is extended. The 
two victims of the sea were buried yesterday. The 
funeral procession was a very large and impressive 
one. 

“ At the inquiry, which was held on Saturday by 
the Procurator-Fiscal in Brieston, Mr. Rodgers’s 
death was found to be due to misadventure.” 

Brieston had at last got definite information. There 
was an unprecedented sale for the issue of the local 
weekly journal. Yet Brieston was not satisfied. Nothing 
had been said about the well-known fact that Gillespie 
had been found in the store in the early morning when he 
ought to have been in bed. A cloud of suspicion rested 
on Gillespie. Besides, it was known that he had left 
Brieston on the day after the funeral. Where had he 
gone ? 

Within a fortnight Gillespie was back in Brieston 
with a steamer. The idea of the steamer was monstrously 
simple. At the opening of the spring herring season, he 
meant to buy in her and “ kill the smacks.” He had 


GILLESPIE 


275 


been in negotiation for some time with a Glasgow firm 
of brokers, who were offering him a small steamer of 
some seventy tons, which had been built for the Duke 
of Sutherland in the deer-stalking seasons, for the trans- 
port of guests from one point to another. She had passed 
through various hands since then, till, like a broken-down 
race-horse, she had found an asylum in the Clyde. Gilles- 
pie was not at all impressed when he was told she had 
splendid cabin accommodation ; but very much impressed 
when the broker pointed out that a single man below 
could fire her and work the engines. He had put off 
clinching the bargain, hoping to wear down the broker 
before the spring; but suddenly changed his mind and 
bought. For two reasons : he scented that his name was 
bandied about. He were best out of Brieston for the 
present. But chiefly because he determined to open 
up a new industry, the idea of which had obsessed his 
mind for some time. During the winter, fishermen had 
brought him not only whelks and cockles for sale, but 
frequently some one or two hundreds of oysters. He 
discovered that the fish-shops in Glasgow would sell 
these oysters at half-a-crown a dozen. They were large 
and excellent in quality. He entered on a brief, decisive 
calculation. He had gathered from the fishermen that 
oysters abounded in the Loch, and were neglected. In 
the deep of winter one or two whelk-gatherers collected 
what came to their hands. Gillespie went immediately 
to work, and through the Fishery Officer obtained a 
ninety -nine year lease of ground below high-water mark 
from the Government, “ for the purpose of rearing shell- 
fish, and beginning what it is hoped will develop into a 
profitable industry on the west coast.” So ran the words 
in a Blue Book report of the Fishery Board. A paternal 
Government gave him an easy lease — twenty-four pounds 
a year. 


276 


GILLESPIE 


As soon as the fishing season was over, and the first 
skiffs drawn on the beach, Gillespie sent for a certain 
crew, who were in his debt for stores, and for a new trawl- 
net. He had had considerable hesitation, because he 
had determined to sink these men in debt to the value 
of their boats, but saw there was something more lucrative 
in the oysters. He told them he would give them a 
chance of working-off the debt during the winter. He 
had had a line boat conveyed by cart to West Loch, 
Brieston; they would use it, and gather oysters with 
every tide. These oysters they would deposit at an 
oyster-bed, which he had leased from the Govern- 
ment. He would pay them at the rate of four 
shillings a hundred; or rather would deduct a corre- 
sponding amount from the debt they owed him. Sandy 
the Fox would accompany them to keep count of the 
oysters. 

The work had been carried on steadily for three months, 
and Gillespie laid the foundation of a fine oyster-bed. 
He saw with provocation that part of the spawn from 
this bed would inevitably float away on the waters of 
the Loch, and conceived a future scheme of building 
a wall round the bed, with sluices for the coming and going 
of the tides. In this way he would hoard all the spawn. 
He had gone to Glasgow to purchase the steamer, and to 
open a connection with a fish salesman there, who would 
dispose of his shell-fish. Narrow and battered, with 
high wooden bulwarks, and a lean, cream-coloured 
funnel, she looked the tormented ghost of a ship. The 
Butler facetiously named her the Sudden Jerk. 

Gillespie now fawned on every one with a sort of 
angelic devilry. He offered a job as deck-hand to Andy 
Rodgers’s son; spoke every man fair; made them feel 
more than they were. “ I knew you for a man of that 
kind ; ” and again, “ You’re the open-handed fellow.” 


GILLESPIE 


277 


His touch was a cat’s with sheathed claw. He was like 
a man softly playing on a flute with his eye on the 
audience and an obsequious hat ready. His voice was 
demurring, soft — a song; and all the while his nostril 
whistled — whistled as a high wind which is blowing upon 
a trigger at full cock. He imagined that in the genial 
sun of this duplicity Brieston was again warming towards 
him. He reckoned on the gullibility of the public, and 
was about to prove his reckoning correct. 


CHAPTER XIX 


It was the beginning of the spring fishing season, when 
the herring leave the spawning banks on the Ayrshire 
coast and move north. News had reached Brieston 
that at last trawling had been legalised by Act of Parlia- 
ment. A telegram conveying the momentous tidings 
had been sent from London by the member for the 
county to Gillespie, who had posted it up in his shop 
window. Few of the crews possessed trawl-nets, for 
prosecution had been severe, and heavy fines imposed, 
and many of the nets confiscated. The whole fleet 
would now procure nets — two hundred or thereby. 
Gillespie would reduce the fifty pounds figure he had 
levied when trawling had been illegal, and show himself 
a man of sacrifice to meet the new conditions. At 
thirty-five pounds he would still have a handsome profit. 
He sat poring over his ledger with a ready reckoner at 
his elbow, and after an interval of calculation, passed 
into the front shop, and with secret satisfaction displayed 
the telegram on the large plate-glass window. 

The news gave unbounded satisfaction. The men 
talked of nothing but their brighter prospects, mingling 
the note of hope with objurgations on the day of the 
blockade, when the Fishery Cruiser hovered like blight 
upon the waters of the Loch. They recalled times when 
knives had been drawn, and they had even been fired 
upon, and the trawl-nets, the title-deeds of the town, had 
been concealed in garrets, beneath beds, in sheds and 
hen-houses. Sunday was the chief day for searching by 
278 


GILLESPIE 


279 


the Government men. Peggy More, exasperated, had 
attacked one of the marauders with a stool. 

“ Sparrow-hawk,” she cried, “ herryin’ the nest; ” and 
felled him with a blow on the head. When she was 
arrested, a hue-and-cry was raised that war was being 
waged on women. The business became more ominous 
when Watty Foster flung down his reins, and the news 
that Peggy More had given birth prematurely to a child 
in Ardmarkie jail. The news had gone like fire through 
straw. Men forgot to go home to eat, and in the greater 
feud lesser enmities were forgotten. The following 
Sunday a search was being made. The men came out 
of church about eight in the evening to find that the 
spring-tide, pushed by a sou’-east gale, was deep in Harbour 
Street. Wading in the water, they attacked the Govern- 
ment men, and women, incensed because of the fate of 
Peggy More, ran out, armed with pokers, stools, and the 
like, and joined the fight in the tide. The scrimmage 
became notorious. Wasps in the House of Commons 
stung the Government. The authorities in London, 
thinking the ill-feeling widespread and dangerous, and 
perplexed with other more vital concerns, restored peace 
by legalising trawling. Peggy More was released and 
given an ovation. 

It got abroad — no one knew how — that Gillespie was 
at the bottom of these happier events, having made 
representations to the member for the county. Gillespie, 
again elevated to a pinnacle of prestige, walked down 
the middle of the street with high head. 

Such pedestrianism was significant, for Gillespie had 
something in him of the animal which, when hurt or 
threatened, crouches out of sight. The circumstances 
attending the death of Andrew Rodgers were forgotten. 
The wilder public surmise is, the sooner does speculation 
cease, as flame blazes through tinder. The imagination 


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of the public had been ill -fed on a garbled newspaper 
report ; the reaction to which mental fatigue gives rise set 
in, and the mind of the people, lying fallow through a winter 
of monotonous existence, was prepared to receive a 
sowing of new seed when Gillespie affixed the notable 
telegram to his shop window. 

Eccentricities are a comic play-acting in life, offered 
by the fatuous or by men vainglorious of a cheap notoriety 
to a stultified or to a half -lethargic people, and are noticed 
as a wave is observed on a sea of immoderate calm ; but 
in the beginning of new epochs personal idiosyncrasies 
are lost sight of, as the wave is indistinguishable in a sea 
lashed by tempest. Thus we find Gillespie come abroad 
from obscurity in his old eccentric walk in the middle 
of the street. Other men walked on the pavements, in 
the shadow of the houses. In the larger interests of 
legalised trawling his appearance was gratefully accepted. 
He had come out from a cloud, and took a larger place 
than ever in the eye of the town. Humanity is prone 
to steal omens anywhere, and Gillespie incited the men 
with hopes of a splendid season under the aegis of Govern- 
ment. They took fire, and became instant upon prepara- 
tion. Trawl-nets were ordered, and crews of eight men 
to occupy the two “ company ” boats necessary for trawl- 
ing operations were formed. For initiative and enterprise 
it was held that between the East Sea and West Sea of 
Scotland Gillespie had not his equal. His spirit moved 
the town, and his ill-fame suffered euthanasia in the 
sound of the scraper heard over all the beaches. The 
skiffs were being scraped, tarred, and varnished. Morning 
after morning the men came out of their deep-doored 
houses and made the beaches, the Quays, and the barking- 
houses loud and merry. A dead season gave up its 
ensigns of ballast, chains, ropes, sails, buoys, and oars, 
which Jittered the beaches and the foreshores. The 


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town had a deserted appearance. The previous week the 
beaches were empty ; the famous telegram came as with 
the snarl of trumpets, and the crunching of gravel on 
the beaches and the noise of the boat-scrapers were a 
Te Deum. 

“ There’ll be many a cobweb brushed away this week,” 
said Mary Bunch at the Pump. Forgotten now are 
moonless nights, and the ghostly snow-showers blinding 
the shores ; blistered fingers and raw sea- wounds. There 
is a sound of singing — the sailing-songs of their sires — 
around the inlets and creeks and pleasant gardens of 
the sea. The boats are about to leave their gravelly 
nurseries for the blue balcony of the Harbour. Some of 
the men are painting the numbers on the bows of the 
skiffs — those deft of hand ; others dragging nets in 
barrows from the hibernating stores of Gillespie; a rich 
savour of melting tar is in all the beaches, where the iron 
braziers are blazing with fire; sails and nets are being 
barked ; oars, ballast, water-casks, cran baskets, anchors, 
chains, the big jib for fair weather, and the little jib for 
a reefed breeze all being stowed away. The traveller 
is greased against the mast; halyards are replaced, and 
sheet ropes spliced and tarred. Battle, clink, roar of 
material ; gust and ripple of talk ; merriment and 
laughter; sea-boys coiling ropes; barrows and lorries 
butting each other, and irascible drivers vituperating 
in the vain language of the stable. 

In the fulness of time the skiffs are ready, and laying 
their shoulders to the flanks and the curve of the stern, 
with a shout the men drive them down the glittering 
beach, and take them to their anchorage in the Harbour. 
On that night the sea-boys parade the town. 

“ An’ we are beatin* in the dark all up the Kerry shore, 

Mi boys, 

Where yon long seas do roar, mi boys, 

An’ are white wi’ dead men’s bones 


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The song swells over the Harbour. Its like has been 
sung by many disciples of the sea, hardy men on famous 
ships : the song of daring mingled with sorrow for brave 
lives lost outside the harbours of the world, which all 
shipmen on all seas have known; and now brought 
home to this fag-end of a beach and bare sea-town, 
prepared to engage the seas on the strength of a message 
from London. 

There falls upon the grey town at sunset a shining 
peace. A little wind blows in from the sea. The fleet, 
swung round into its eye, is peering out of the harbour 
mouth. The town from the Barracks to the 
“ Shipping Box ” is very quiet. A benign influence is 
abroad. Blue smoke slants up as from altars. The hills 
are ablaze with whin. The men stand looking out upon 
the boats, virgin yet of herring-scale, and smoke in silence. 
There is upon them a sense of hope about to be fulfilled ; 
a sense of the replenishing and moving of the waters. 

In the little wind from the sea the sign of the dagger 
at the “ Ghost ” is mournfully creaking. This wind cools 
the face of Gillespie. He had been delving into his 
books, and came on a note of a loan of hundreds of pounds 
received from his father, who had stupidly quarrelled 
with him over a business of selling on Sundays. Gillespie 
was not likely to be troubled about this loan. All day 
he had laboured at his books, entering in the long lists 
of nets, ropes, tar, and such-like gear, which he had sold, 
and stood now at the close-mouth beneath the stars in 
the cooling wind, looking at a forest of masts in the 
Harbour, raking in little drunken jerks across a patch of 
sky. On Monday the fleet would clear — “ my fleet,” he 
thought, with a faint smile of benevolence — and deter- 
mined to have the Sudden Jerk prepared for sea on 
Monday. As he was about to turn up the close, he 
heard a familiar stump, stump, on the pavement. 


GILLESPIE 


283 


Traiveller Jeck appeared, and was about to speak, when, 
seeing he had made a mistake, he continued stumping. 
Gillespie detained him. 

“ You hae some skill o’ boats, Jeck, my man.” 

“ I was up the Mediterranean a dozen times.” 

“ I’ll gie ye a job on my herrin’ steamer, if ye’ll tek’ 
it.” 

4 4 Catch me refusing a loaf.” 

“ Be doon then, brisk an’ early wi’ the morn’s ebb, 
an’ get her on the beach. Her bottom ’ill need a bit 
scrape. I want her oot by Monday.” 

Thus it was that on Saturday Brieston learned that 
the old days of depending on the buyers in the smacks 
were over. Gillespie was going to wait upon them with 
steam. 


CHAPTER XX 


Gillespie could forecast many of the events which 
depended for their occurrence on the caprice or desires 
of men, but the mysterious workings of the laws of 
Nature were beyond his cunning. The herring fishing 
was a failure. The first week some few dozen boxes of 
small, immature herrings were fished; but since then 
barren night gave way to dreary morning, till — “ I’m not 
goin’ oot again,” said old Sandy ; “we reinged the bights 
a’ last month, and never saw a scale.” 

This and that reason was alleged, till slowly it was 
borne in on the men that “ trawling ” was ruining the 
industry. Such constant raking of the Loch with large 
“ trawls,” had split up the great “ eyes ” of herring, just 
when they had come up from the spawning banks of 
Ayrshire, and had driven them back again. 

“ It stands to reason,” said old Sandy, “ wi’ the drifts 
we lay quate a’ night at anchor, an’ the fish came into 
the shore, but noo wi’ this trawlin’, big boats an’ nets 
hammerin’ on the top o’ the herrin’ a’ night long, no 
fish wad stand it.” 

“ Hoo are ye, Sanny ? ” cried Gillespie, passing. 

“ My health’s good, thank Goad, but I’m in very 
reduced circumstances.” 

Soon the town began to feel the pinch. 

“ Boys,” said the Bent Preen, at the “ Shipping Box,” 
“ I’ve kent trouble. I’ve seen my faither, that’s deid 
an’ gone, greetin’ wance in the middle o’ the day; but 
thon was noathin’ to this.” Yet the Bent Preen had 

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285 


less cause for complaint than most, for he had no family, 
and his wife had said to him no later than that morning, 
when about to set out to a washing at the Banker’s, 
“ Mony’s a bit turn a wumman can do that a man canna, 
an’ win a shullin’ thae hard times.” 

In more important quarters the matter was discussed. 
Willie Allan, Campion the schoolmaster, Dr. Maclean, the 
Banker, and Lonend’s father, were seated in Brodie’s 
back parlour. Brodie himself, Willie Allan, Dr. Maclean, 
and the Banker were members of the Parish Council. 
Campion had suggested that the Council might offer 
work to the more hardly hit. 

“ There’s too much fuss,” said the Butler, frowning, 
“ far too much fuss made with this world — parish 
councils and school boards and football matches — an’ 
no’ half enough preparing for eternity.” By which 
deliverance his cronies knew the Butler to be fairly deep 
in liquor. “ No wonder there’s hard times with a tea- 
drinking generation that bows down the knee to Gillespie 
Strang.” 

“ How’s that ? ” asked Maclean, laughing uproariously. 

“ They haven’t got the stuff in them now-a-days, 
doctor, to go and look for herring. There was a day 
when every house in Brieston — and good thatch houses 
they were — was bursting with meat. We could lock the 
door, doctor, and no need to go out and buy anything 
but tobacco.” 

“ And whisky,” said Campion. 

The Butler’s eyes gleamed with silent laughter. 

“ Ay ! of course, and whisky from our friend Brodie 
here. There’s nothing like whisky for softening leather. 
But that’s the way it was. The pig would be killed and 
the hams hanging from hooks ; a barrel of braxy behind 
the door; a barrel at the window full of meal; another 
with flour ; and a barrel o’ salt herring an’ a bag o’ potatoes 


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below the bed. The Arran smacks came in with cargoes 
of potatoes and coals, so cheap you were almost ashamed 
to buy. Now what is it ? ” 

“ A dark, misty day ” — from Campion. 

“ Ay ! ay ! the weemin run to Gillespie for a pickle 
tea and sugar, an’ steek their lug at the fire-end, waiting 
on the tea to mask, and sitting with a bowl in their hand, 
like the giraffes I saw in my travels with the Laird, 
stretching out their long necks to drink. No wonder the 
weemin’ s yellow in the face and Bries ton’s on the rocks. 
I tell ye,” he roared, smacking the table with his fist, 
“ it’s tea, Gillespie’s China tea, that’s playing Old Harry 
with the town. Let the folk eat plenty o’ braxy an’ 
bannocks, porridge an’ pease-meal, an’ soor dook an’ 
salt herring, an’ I’ll wager ye Gillespie can go for a living 
to Skye, an’ every lassie will have two men running after 
her. Ach, Nellie ! Nellie ! ” he shouted, “ bring in a drink ; 
I’m dry. Gillespie’s name in my mouth always leaves 
me dry — the obnoxious rag; he’s too cold and frosty 
a man for me.” 

“ He’s pretty near,” said Campion. 

“ Ay,” grunted the Butler, “ it’s my granddaughter 
can tell you that.” 

Campion coloured, and said nothing. 

Nellie, Brodie’s daughter, popped a tousled head in 
at the door. She had a half-knitted stocking in her 
hand, and stifling a yawn, shook her head at the Butler. 

“ No more,” she said; “ ten o’clock, gentlemen.” 

Brodie frowned. He hated ten o’clock when the 
company was good. They all disregarded Nellie, except 
by looks of menace. 

Presently the door was again opened, and the voice 
thrust in upon them — a strident female, ranged with the 
law, against the comfort of the chief men of the town. 
c< After ten o’clock, gentlemen.” 


GILLESPIE 


287 


“ Ach ! Nellie, ye bitch,” wheezed Brodie, and they 
all knew then that they had to go from the “ bien couthie ” 
place and the warm talk. 

They passed out into Harbour Street, into a thin, raw 
rain. Three men — James Murray and his two sons — 
passed to the house where Murray’s mother lay dead, to 
see that all was well with the body for the night. 

4 4 They found her deid in bed,” said Willie Allan, 
looking at the doctor. 

Maclean’s hand went up to his moustache. 44 Heart 
gave way; want of food,” he said. 

4 4 Good God ! ” ejaculated Campion ; 44 and look at that ! ” 

A middle-aged man, with a scrub of dark-grey hair 
and eyebrows bunched in tufts, staggered over to Brodie’s 
closed door and pounded it with his fists. 

44 Who’s there ? ” came the well-known wheeze ; 44 away 
home ! it’s aifter ten o’clock.” 

44 It’s me, Brodie, yeer freen’ Jonnie.” 

44 Oot o’ there, ye tinkler, hooever ye are.” 

44 Ye might let a freen’ in a meenut ; I’m only wantin’ 
change for the plate the morn.” 

Willie Allan and his friends stood listening. Up the 
street a little, at the shoemaker’s one-storey house, which 
stood by itself on the Harbour wall, a company of 
44 Revivalists ” was singing a hymn : 

“ There were ninety and nine that safely lay 
In the shelter of the fold. ?l 

— the words drifted down the wind — blown through the 
rain to them. 

44 One dies of starvation,” said Campion loudly, 44 and 
one has money in his hands, pushing in at the doors of 
hell ; and ninety and nine are safe in the fold.” 

These doors at that moment received a vindictive 
kick. Presently one of the long, narrow leaves was flung 


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open, and a purple face was thrust out. 44 Get oot o’ 
here, ye blaiggart, or I’ll knock the guts oot o’ ye ! ” The 
man was violently shoved off the pavement, and the door 
was clapped to. After some circumnavigation with his 
mouth, he found the key-hole. 

4 4 That’s the sort ye are, Brodie. Ye’ll kiss oor back- 
side afore ten o’clock an’ kick it aifter.” 

The man lurched over to the group. 

44 As sure as my faither wore the tartan — I’sh — hie — 
join the Goo’ Templsh — an’ — hie — buy a plair — o’ — 
gallush — A’ grudged — hie — grudged ’em when I — wash 
— booze ” 

44 Blind and miserable, sick and naked. Oh, for 
God’s sake, let’s get away from here ! ” cried Campion. 

They moved up the street in a body. At the shoe- 
maker’s house, on the breast wall near the Square, which 
was blazing with light, stood the Revivalist meeting. 
A strange and moving sight met their glance. On the 
edge of the ring was Queebec, his white head bare to the 
rain, facing the Square and the fishermen assembled at 
44 Gillespie’s corner,” and at the Medical Hall. In a loud, 
screeching voice, he was telling of his visitation by the 
Lord, and was warning all men against the evils of drink, 
of bad living, of revenge and greed. His eyes were 
flashing; long wisps of thin hair were blown about his 
face. Three men he openly denounced — the Receiver of 
Wrecks of the 44 Anchor Hotel,” Brodie, and Gillespie 
Strang. 

44 Spawn of the devil they are, and Gillespie Strang is 
anti-Christ. Robbers and plunderers of the town they 
are.” Zeal ate him up, as he shook the rain from his 
piteous white head, and uttered libel with glowing hatred. 

44 Too long I have been in the tents of sin,” he cried, 
44 and I have paid the price and the penalty ; and now 
I warn you men of Brieston. Do you think the Lord is 


GILLESPIE 


289 


for ever going to give you herring to be drinking, and you 
giving it to a thief an’ a robber like Gillespie Strang. 
I tell ye, the curse o’ God fell on me. Look at my white 
head, all in a night.” He tossed his head, and swung 
round from side to side, facing the three sides of the 
Square. “ And it’ll fall on Brieston too. Can ye expect 
to get herring to feed publicans and robbers ? ” He 
spread out his hands ; his voice rose to a scream. “ The 
sea that should feed you shall rot your boats. Blight 
and mildew shall devour them. God will make a worm 
to destroy them like Jonah’s gourd.” There was a 
gloomy grandeur in the appearance of the man. His 
eye burned with a prophetic light. “ Woe ! woe ! ! 
woe ! ! ! I see it. Woe ! woe ! ! woe ! ! ! to this town, 
whoever will live to see it.” Foaming and panting and 
hunched up at the shoulders, he fell back, and the silence 
was solemnly broken by a deep -throated Amen from 
a man in spectacles, who stepped forward to announce 
the hymn : 

“ Lo ! He comes in clouds descending. 

“ He’s right,” said the Butler vehemently, “ about 
Gillespie Strang and the Receiver of Wrecks. I don’t 
know what I’m to think if I’m to be lost, and be in hell 
with folk I wouldn’t speak to here — boozers an’ scandal- 
mongers, an’ liars, an’ thieves, and all the riff-raff o’ dirty 
livers an’ rascals. My place is with gentlemen. Is it fair 
that I’m to be pitched in among folk I wouldn’t nod to 
on the other side of the street, or give back an answer if 
they said it’s a fine day or it’s scoory weather ? ” 

They turned across the Square in the direction of the 
Medical Hall, whose large green and red bottles, a yard 
high in the window, relieved the greyness of the rainy 
night. 

“ Who is the preacher ? ” asked Campion, as they stood 
u 


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GILLESPIE 


in front of the door of the Medical Hall; “ his face was 
like the face of a lost angel ! ” 

“ He is a man who will soon be mad,” answered 
Dr. Maclean sadly. He saw Kyle, his chemist, beckoning 
to him from the shop, and nodded. “ Gillespie’s cup is 
filling up. Good-night, gentlemen.” And entering the 
shop, he stood gravely listening to his chemist. 

“ What does the doctor mean ? ” asked Campion. 

“ He means what poor Queebec means, by God : ay ! 
his cup is filling up.” The Butler’s voice boomed away 
into the blurred greyness of the weeping night. 

Campion was distinctly uneasy. “ Ugh ! ” — he shivered 
at the thought — “ these Hielan’ folk live and move and 
have their being in superstition. All the same, I don’t 
like it. I’ll cut her.” 

Thus Mrs. Strang lost her lover. 


CHAPTER XXI 


All the spring it blew persistently in easterly gales 
which darkened the land. To this, in turn, was attributed 
the failure of the herring fishing. There was hardly a 
day in which the men could put the bow of a boat over 
the Harbour mouth. At last the easterly gales died 
away ; and summer suddenly blazed down from a sky 
of brass. 

“ This heat will bring the herring to the shore,” it 
was said ; but morning after morning the boats returned 
empty, till the conviction was forced upon Brieston that 
there was not a herring in that glassy, green, beautiful 
Loch. The firmament was laid in bands of blue steel. 
Inch by inch the awful heat crept up over the land, 
smiting it as with searing irons to brown, yellow, white, 
and in the end, when children began to die, to an appalling 
black. 

The streams around Lonend and Muirhead shrunk. 
Lochan Dhu, in the hills, sobbed out its life to the water- 
lilies. The pools and marshes became black hollows, 
and the shallow head of West Loch Brieston was leprous 
with dry salt. Far up the head streams, where the damp 
nests of green things are, the juniper fell in dry twigs, 
the heather was ablaze, and a great smoke hung on the 
hills. The grasses curled into wires; the mosses melted 
off the dikes; the stalks of the hardy sea-pinks wilted 
under their burden; the wild rosebushes were gaunt 
with thorns ; and the roads and tracks on the hill-lands 
preserved, as if cast in iron, every mark. 

291 


292 


GILLESPIE 


The hillsides above the town lifted their bare rocks, 
quivering and grey, like bones in a fantastic body, and 
were deserted of birds which haunted the river-sides for 
frogs. 

The tamer animals went back to a wilder nature. Pigs 
and dogs went rooting about, and the sheep fainted on the 
moor, which was whitened with the skeletons of birds, or 
lay down, a prey to flies and ravens, in the parched fields. 
The heron had wailed away in a stringing flight into the 
north, seeking the rains in the Hebrides. The only sound 
of bird-life was the moaning of wild doves in the gloom 
of the pines below Muirhead. The land was dumb save 
for that sound and the burden of the grasshopper, which 
spun the heat into a maddening noise as of wires. 

The sea slouched in its oily calm, silent and glassy, 
until “ the very deep did rot.” 

Dawn by dawn the sun flamed forth like a sword ; the 
sky was a white-hot sheet of steel, raining down blistering 
fire. At night the big stars throbbed in the dark-blue 
vault, and reeled in their courses. 

At last a lean blue gap of 'mud stretched across the 
head of West Loch Brieston, where the Brieston river 
used to run. The land shrunk; dust rose into the sun 
in the faint puffs of veering wind, till the crude glare was 
of brass. A furnace boiled in the sky at noon, as if the 
veil of the atmosphere had been rent away. The very 
shadows on the Brieston streets fled, as if seeking shelter 
from that dizzy glare. 

Men, thin, white-faced, bleached, with swollen and 
cracked lips, scanned the heavens by day and searched 
the clear stars by night, when the tortured earth gave back 
its heat to the parched air. In the houses the children 
panted and moaned, and the women forbore at length, 
from weakness, to rub the sweat from their infants’ faces. 

The hills began swinging to the drone of the grass- 


GILLESPIE 


293 


hoppers. The islands of the Loch rose up and floated in 
the air, cool with a long ecstasy of rippling water. 
Children began to die; women raved in the low-roofed 
houses of the Back Street; the men took turns at the 
Pump, standing in line waiting with the empty stoups 
sheltering their heads. In the adamant of the hills 
dwelt an unearthly silence, beneath the dry summer 
lightning which flickered from peak to peak. The thunder 
ran moaning and rumbling out to sea, and died away 
like the whimper of far trumpets. 

The atmosphere went mad, rising and falling in a 
great wave beneath the furnace of the sky. The horizon 
was ringed with a hard red in the evenings, and twenty 
suns danced and slid over the sky. 

The men no longer lifted their bleared eyes upwards. 
Their brains ached with the heat. The bones stood out 
on their bodies. They lay all day in a stupor till the 
tardy twilight came, and the sun sank in the sea like 
a great autumnal leaf falling on a loch. 

One Sunday a derelict came in on the tide, struck end 
on at the Perch in the Harbour mouth, spun about in the 
tide-rip, sagged across to the Island, and drifted in a 
drunken fashion up the Harbour. She fell foul of one of 
the fishing-skiffs, cleared and crawled, a tall, mysterious, 
dark ship, up to the breast- wall in front of the Square. 
When the tide ebbed she careened over against the wall, 
her long, tapering masts stretching out upon the Square. 
On her broad stern-counter in faded letters of gold was 
the name Flor Del Mar. Her cordage was in rags ; her 
foresail hung idly in the windless air; her deck was 
deserted. Gillespie and Rory Campbell, the policeman, 
boarded her. In the cabin they found a black-bearded 
man lying in a bunk dead. Lines of extreme pain were 
graved on his face, and his lips were drawn back from 
fine white teeth in a half grin, a half snarl. On the floor 


294 


GILLESPIE 


a dead boy lay twisted up. In the forecastle they found 
two others, who had plainly died in agony. In the 
cabin there was a large cage with two canaries. Gillespie 
looted the cabin, and established the birds, which were 
alive, in the shop. 

Campbell crossed the Square for the doctor, who 
appeared in a white pith helmet. He looked at the silent 
occupants of the cabin. “ Plague,” he said. 

The policeman’s face went white. 

“ Constable,” continued Maclean dispassionately, “ go 
to Osborne the ironmonger, and get a charge of dynamite. 
Blow up the ship at once, or the graveyard will be the 
busiest place in Brieston.” 

Campbell sweated profusely. 

“ What ails ye, man ? ” asked Maclean irritably. 

“ I’m no likin’ the chob at aal.” 

“ Go home,” said the doctor sternly, “ and lock your- 
self in a cell ; maybe you’ll lock death out. I’ll remember 
you from this day as a coward.” The doctor pointed to 
the companion-way. “ Go ! ” The policeman slunk up the 
stair. The doctor shouted to Gillespie, who came down 
the companion-way whistling sharply in his nostrils. 
Maclean pointed to the black face grinning in the bunk. 
“ There’s a cloud of calamity hanging over Brieston. 
Go to Osborne’s for dynamite, and help me to blow up 
this coffin.” 

Gillespie demurred. “ There’s a pickle salvage here,” 
he said suavely. 

“ It will be gathered with a sickle,” replied Maclean, 
“ in the hands of the Angel of Death. The atmosphere is 
badly tainted. Your life is in far graver danger here 
than it was when Andy Rodgers and you met in the 
store.” Maclean fixed Gillespie with a steady gaze, and 
saw him become livid. “ I’ll wait here till you get the 
dynamite.” 


GILLESPIE 


295 


“ It’s no’ my business,” muttered Gillespie ; “ the 

owners might sue for damages.” 

“ It will have to be at the hands of the Almighty ; ” 
again Maclean pointed to the companion-way. “ Go 
and lock yourself up in your house ; p’r’aps you will lock 
out the plague.” 

Gillespie paused irresolute. Greed warred in him 
with fear. 

“ Do you believe in God ? ” asked Maclean quietly. 

“ You’re jokin’, doctor.” 

“ No ! I’m in earnest. This is His day, Sunday, and 
this is His messenger.” He nodded to the dead huddled 
boy. “ If you can’t blow up the ship, go home and get 
on your knees.” 

Gillespie retreated, followed by the doctor. On the 
breast- wall he spoke to Maclean. 

“ Is there anything I can tak’, doctor? ” His knees 
trembled. He seemed in a state of collapse. 

“ Go home, man, go home, and get drunk on brandy.” 

For the first time since the night of his marriage, 
Gillespie drank in his own house. Towards evening, 
Topsail Janet purloined the half empty bottle; and 
that night Gillespie’s wife lay by his side drunk. 

Dr. Maclean told Osborne, a man with a large bald 
head and deep-sunken, smouldering eyes. 

“ It’s best face to Greenock, this time, doctor,” he 
he said. 

Preceded by Maclean, Osborne carried a keg of gun- 
powder through the Square. A crowd had gathered 
round the breast- wall, gaping on the silent ship. 

“Back!” cried Maclean, in a ringing voice; “back 
out of here ! There’s plague and death in this ship.” 

A bowed man with thin, white hair elbowed his way 
through the crowd, an open Bible in his hand. In rapid 
tones he began reading, his voice gradually rising to 


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a scream. “ ‘ The seed is rotten under their clods, the 
garners are laid desolate, the barns are broken down; 
for the corn is withered.’ ” In the still air, under the blaz- 
ing sky, every word of Queebec’s was clear as a bell. 
“ £ How do the beasts groan ! the herds of cattle are 
perplexed, because they have no pasture ; yea, the flocks 
of sheep are made desolate.’ ” His flashing eyes swept the 
crowd. “ £ The fire of heaven,’ ” he cried, “ ‘ hath devoured 
the pastures, and the flame hath burned all the trees 
of the field.’” He shook the Bible aloft, chanting the 
words of terror over which he had pondered through the 
scorching weeks. ££ ‘ The beasts of the field cry also unto 
Thee; for the rivers of waters are dried up.’ ” 

“ He’s mad,” said Osborne to the doctor, who was 
holding out his arms to receive the keg of gunpowder. 

“ Ay,” said Maclean, leaning forward with the keg in 
his hands, “ God has made him mad.” 

“ ‘ A day of darkness and of gloominess, a day of clouds 
and of thick darkness, as the morning spread upon the 
mountains.’ ” The lean arm was stretched out upon the 
fascinated crowd. “ £ Run to and fro ; death shall enter 
in at the windows like a thief.’ ” 

££ Shut up ! ” a deep voice of anger growled in the crowd, 
which began to sway in a great wave. 

“ You cannot shut up the voice of the Lord,” screamed 
Queebec ; ££ hear it : £ The earth shall quake, the heavens 
shall tremble ; the sun and the moon shall be dark, and 
the stars shall withdraw their shining.’ ” 

“ Throw him into the Harbour ! ” a voice yelled. The 
crowd oscillated violently and surged forward. 

££ No, but throw Gillespie Strang and Brodie into the 
Harbour, the wolves of the town. £ Woe ! woe ! in 
the earth; blood and fire and pillars of smoke. The 
sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into 
blood ’ ” 


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297 


A hand was suddenly clapped over Queebec’s mouth, 
the Bible was torn from his grasp ; a low-throated 
snarl burst from the crowd ; it heaved forward, baying, 
and the white head went down in the rush. 

Maclean appeared at the cabin door carrying the 
shoulders of a dead man. The crowd became still. 
The waves out of a vast, silent eternity washed over them. 
One, two, three, four, five bodies were brought ashore. 
Honour to the ironmonger. As for Maclean, it was his 
duty. “Back!” he roared, “back for your lives!” 
He leaped ashore, followed by Osborne. “ Back, you 
men ! ” he shouted. 

The people surged slowly backwards against the wall 
of Gillespie’s house, the Bank, and the Medical Hall, 
where they waited in tense silence. Suddenly a scream 
was heard. “ Look at him, the wolf ! ” Queebec’s long 
arm pointed upwards. Just as the eyes of the crowd 
fell on Gillespie standing at his parlour window, a red 
tongue of flame stabbed the air. The ship rocked and 
heaved as if on a huge roller. A cloud of dark-greenish 
smoke, bathed in the heart with flame, rocked upwards 
in the midst of a deafening roar; splinters shot up into 
the air; the column of smoke curled lazily upwards, 
venomous with poison, and a belt of light spread along 
the breast-wall. There was a splitting of glass — the 
windows in Gillespie’s shop and house were smashed. 
Silently they watched the wrecked ship blaze. The heat 
became intense. The crowd backed away into the lane at 
the Bank, and up the west brae towards the Post Office. 

“ Fire to burn and to cleanse,” screamed Queebec ; 
“ fire to purge the sins of Gillespie.” And many in the 
crowd in after days recalled those wild words of a madman. 

“It’ll maybe burn out the plague,” Maclean said 
grimly to Osborne ; “ if not I shall never get my boots off ; ” 
and he entered his house, taking Queebec with him by 


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the shoulder. A black fog hung over the Harbour all 
that day. On the morrow Campbell’s wife was down 
with the plague. In two days she was dead, and her 
face turned black. Swiftly the plague ran its course. 
A curious circumstance was that children were immune. 
People refused to lay out and wash the dead, and Stuart 
denied them the last offices. The sailmaker and Queebec 
fearlessly took his place. A Sheriff-Officer from Ard- 
markie, a man with a loud, booming voice, that could be 
heard far away in the stillness of that burned, plague- 
haunted town, came to bury the dead. The funeral 
procession was invariably composed of the same men — 
the Sheriff-Officer and the sailmaker, and Queebec walking 
ahead, bowed over an open Bible, Willie Allan and the 
Butler, Maclean, when he had the opportunity, and 
Stevenson the undertaker, a red, silent man. In that 
day of quiet heroes, none displayed such heroism as he. 
Over the door of his joiner’s shed, to this day, can be 
seen the model of a coffin in oak, like a sign. He was 
young then, and of a shaggy, fierce appearance, taciturn, 
a hard worker, making as many as six coffins in a day of 
eighteen hours. He was like a shadow, slipping through 
the streets, hatless, in his shirt-sleeves, and bare of foot. 
He dragged the fallen off the streets, and coffined them 
afterwards. His wife haggled in grief -stricken homes 
for the coffin money, because of her husband’s enormous 
expense for planks, till he lifted his gnarled hand upon her. 
The time came when he had to make a coffin for her also 
— taciturn then beyond his wont, and swearing at the 
wailing of her kinswomen. At all hours he was seen 
bearing a coffin, sometimes with the help of the sail- 
maker, sometimes with that of the Sheriff-Officer, passing 
on in the dawn after a night of toil to those to whom the 
dawn would never arise again. Most solemn he appeared 
then, beneath the scarlet arch of morning, uncertain 


GILLESPIE 


299 


whether the evening would find him on his feet. Quid 
vesper vehat, incertum est. 

“ The sea will never drown another man in Brieston,” 
the Sheriff- Officer said to him one morning; “ the plague 
will get them all.” 

“ Who kens ? ” he answered, shaking his head, and 
looking at the row of masts which leaned over against 
the blank windows of the sleeping houses. The wind 
will blow again and the keels toss upwards to the stars, 
and the cordage be broken in the tempest. To-day 
the ships alone have security, and the undertaker passes 
on to meet the Black Death. Nothing can withstand him. 
In burning weather or in boisterous, he awaits all things. 
This usher to Eternity, this gleaner where the last sickle 
gleams and swings, is aware that if to-day the ballasted 
boats securely make an anchorage, to-morrow they shall 
enter into the storm — contemptible toys with their hard- 
won revenues spilled upon the waves, and their patrimony 
dismantled and devoured; and he, vigilant upon the 
shore, the wayfarer who goes to the grave-mouth and 
returns, shall take the dead and bring them upon their 
last voyage into the haven, with their cares and vexations 
at an end, upon his rude, unrigged deal plank. 

They passed through the town to the Quay. Willie 
Allan was dead. Stevenson did his offices silently. At 
noon they came to bury him. 

“ Good-bye, friend,” said Stevenson, and screwed down 
the lid. In his shirt sleeves he helped to bear forth the 
coffin. They laid it at the door. There was no minister. 

“ Men, take off your hats,” for he had none. He 
tapped the lid with his screw-driver. 

“ He’s by wi’t; he played the man.” Then with 
simple assurance, “ God has his soul;” and the sail- 
maker offered prayer. At the close, Stevenson signalled 
to them to bear away the coffin. He was not of the 


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procession. Fog had delayed the luggage steamer with 
his pine planks. He went with a hatchet to the wood at 
West Loch Brieston for a serviceable tree. That night 
Stevenson stood shoeless and hatless at his door, like a 
famished eagle, wasted with fatigue and want of sleep. 
There was a white wheel about the moon, and trailing 
over her cold splendour a cloud scarce bigger than a 
man’s hand, as if that luminary, wearied of her nightly 
torture of vision on the racked earth, had dragged up 
from the unrelenting deep one gleam of mercy. A little 
purging wind blew from the south-west. The undertaker 
held up his head and sniffed. “ There’s a smell of rain,” 
he muttered; and he knew that his day was over, his 
destiny fulfilled. The end of death was for him the end 
of real life. Solemnly he contemplated the stars becoming 
dimmer in the skies, as the moist wind freshened, and 
he thought of Willie Allan and the strangeness of Fate. 
Only to-day he was buried; and to-night the rains were 
creeping in from the ocean. 

Towards midnight the wind snapped and blew in 
fierce scurries, and thunder slowly rolled in the hills. 

Zp-p ! Zip ! a flash tore across the vault, lambent, 
reddish ; crash ! came the answering roar. Queebec 
was at his door, telling mortals that God reigned, and His 
voice was riding the storm. A dumbness brooded over 
the earth as the last peal rolled away into the reverberate 
hills. The stifling air palpitated. Again a jagged bolt, 
red-hot, leapt out of the south-west, baring the firmament 
and spread in a blinding flame over Brieston, whose 
houses stood out sharp and pale along the Harbour front. 
Again the high artillery of the skies thundered and 
growled. The flash had opened the sluices of heaven. 
Slowly the rain began to fall in great burning drops, and 
the women crawled to their doors holding out famished 
hands. 


GILLESPIE 


301 


The lightning winked ; and heaven opened in a lake 
of flame. The earth shook; and a blind rush of rain 
ran in a white scurry along the streets, and reared a grey 
veil along the Harbour’s face. Again and again the light- 
ning lit the sky in splatches of blue and green and white. 
The rain rang out of the dark. Gusts leapt in thunder 
off the roofs. 

In the morning it was still raining gently. Three 
rainbows were drawn against the sky. Over the wet 
windows a procession of drops of water passed. It was 
as the procession of those who had died of the Black 
Plague. They had come a moment upon the glass of 
Life and disappeared, some soiling the glass, others 
behind, cleansing it a little. The sun sparkled like silver 
upon the wet roofs. 

You will not find Stevenson in Brieston now. He 
lived, a widower, alone, old, and forgotten, dreaming on 
winter nights of the days when the terror-stricken made 
way for him as for an emperor. His house was poor, 
and he shabby. Many families owed him a debt of 
honour for unpaid coffins. He lies not far from Maclean, 
and on his tombstone are these words : 

“ Here lies one who feared death as little as he loved 
his fellow-men greatly. He has entered into his rest.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


Every one took heart when the rains broke, deeming 
the days of disaster to be over. Crews were formed 
again, for many who should have put to sea were now 
beyond all chances of fortune and mischances of storm. 
Gillespie had furnished the fleet with provisions. “ There’s 
nothing in the world like the joy o’ teasin’ tobacco again 
in your palm as ye sit on the gunwale, feelin’ the big 
sea-boots in the crook o’ the knee,” said old Sandy. 
His faded eyes looked abroad, and saw two hundred 
brown sails towering on the Loch going north, south 
and east to search the bights. Overhead the solans were 
sailing out of the north in the sharp, blue void, their 
pirate heads and yellow necks gleaming in the sun. 
Down all the shore the boats came to anchor till sunset, 
for there is a law against daylight fishing. In this 
peaceful hour of the evening watch, when tea was over, 
the drift smoke of the fleet hung aloft like another blue 
sea. The men were stretched out on the beams with 
that negligent grace which no landsman can wholly 
attain. Here and there one or two were busy on little 
jobs — putting a new piece of leather on an oar, splicing 
a rope, or mending their nets. Somewhere a blackbird 
fluted its evensong in the bushes. The mellow note 
died away and stillness gripped the woods, the beaches, 
and the darkling sea. Far off there was a soft sound 
of hill- waters running. The elder men dovered in the 
grey shadows. 

Suddenly the snore of a sounding whale broke the 

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303 


silence. The anchors were lifted, and boat after boat 
stole out from the shadows. Every man was listening. 
It was in their blood to listen. The “ plout ” of one 
leaping herring might betray millions of its fellows swim- 
ming in the dark depths below. As the boats drew 
further out, the sails were hoisted to the gentle breeze, 
and one man in every boat stood up on the forecastle 
head the better to listen. There was something wolfishly 
intent in his tense body and pricked ears. He stood out 
a spe^k bending over the deep ; a point of life scrutinising 
gigantic, imperturbable Nature, that had in its bosom the 
means of making the hearth bright and cheering the 
familiar things of the cot. The sea jealously guards her 
treasure; but always there is an armour joint which the 
sentinel speck finds. In the ambush of hope he waits 
vigilant till the unwary deep opens her guard, and in a flash 
the sword of his necessity is buried deep in her wealth. 

The boats drifted south on the tide, moving like 
ghosts, and the little sentinel specks on the forecastle 
head vanished in the gloom, swallowed up of the vast 
brooding immensity of sea and sky. 

The breeze from the south-west freshened, cresseting 
the sea, and faint voices were heard here and there from 
the phantom boats. 

“ We’ll get a wettin’ the night, boys; see thon sky. 
The tea’s maskin’ there for us.” 

“ Ay,” came the subdued answer, “ it’s dirty an’ black- 
lookin’.” 

A louder voice called across the water : “ There was a 
wheel last night about the moon.” 

In the silence which fell the moon rose stone-cold, 
and in its pale light they saw, far in the south, a long 
black line stretching from shore to shore. The line grew 
swiftly as they looked ; came nearer in waves, like liquid 
lead, rising in fiery crests of white. 


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“ Rattle ! rattle ! ” in the south went the halyards of 
two boats. 

“ They’re lowerin’ to reef,” came a voice. 

“ It’ll be three reefs an’ the wee jib soon,” was an- 
swered back. 

The black line on the sea galloped up, passed north- 
ward, foaming through the fleet, which it left in a grey 
smother. The Loch was now loud with the creaking of 
blocks, the whipping of cordage, the slatting of sails, 
and the hiss of brine along the forefoot. 

“ Scoury weather this.” 

“ Ay ! ay ! an’ it’s no’ the night only ; this weather 
’ill cairry this moon oot on its back. We’ll pey noo for 
the long heat an’ the calm.” A grey driving shower, 
mingled of sleet and rain, slanted up like a wall. Leaden 
seas rolled up the Channel, filling the atmosphere beneath 
the heavy sagging clouds. 

“ It’s Blanket Bay the night, boys,” a stentorian 
voice rang through the screaming of the wind. These 
men were not fatalists ; but generations of sea-faring had 
bequeathed to their blood a ready acquiescence in the 
moods of Nature. There was neither note nor murmur 
of rebellion as they ran reefed down to the Harbour, like 
brown little animals with ears laid back scuttering to 
their holes. They had encountered the “ weemin’s win’.” 
The Harbour, lying deep between two forelands and 
sheltered by a long island running east and west, is 
immune from the fiercest sou’ -east gales, so that, however 
vicious is the storm out of that airt on the Loch, the 
women know nothing but an inner silent Harbour, and 
are amazed to hear the boats coming in. 

Like storm-beaten birds the fleet was in full flight 
from the south where the Loch was now one white smoke. 
The men, unable to discern the land, held high off, knowing 
they would find the Harbour mouth by the lights of 


GILLESPIE 


305 


Brieston, lying deep within. A piercing note rose over 
the moan of the wind and yelled in the cordage. The 
seas curled away like white paper. There was a greenish 
light upon the Loch, relieving the pitch darkness. At 
the tiller, at the pumps, at the sheet, they toiled as 
gloomy headland after headland opened out and swung 
behind the wet bows. The boats to windward were no 
more than a mast and sail lurching and sagging across 
a patch of sky. In a flock they drew in beneath the 
“ Ghost ” ; flurries of the gale followed them ; but the roar 
outside on the Loch died away. At the New Pier the 
oars were unshipped, and to their rhythmic sweep the 
boats stole in through the shadows of the Planting 
below Muirhead, past the Perch and the east end of the 
Island, till they anchored where the lights of Brieston 
sent their long quivering reflections into the dark silent 
water. The plunge of the anchors and the rattle of the 
chains sounded through the town. 

“ What’s put the men in frae the fishin’ a night lik’ 
this ? ” said the Back Street women, the one to the other, 
feeling on their cheek but faint airs sighing down from 
the high hills. 

“ Ach, m’eudail,” old Sandy was explaining to his 
grand-daughter who kept house for him, “ thon’s no’ 
canny at the back-end o’ the year, oot yonder, wi’ the 
seas rollin’ in glens, an’ dark as the grave, an’ a lee- 
shore on every side o’ ye. I’m feart we’re goin’ to be 
in for a hard winter, mo thruaigh.” 

The wind veered to the nor ’west the next day. The 
sky seemed torn in shreds which flew in the firmament. 
The rain-blackened houses stood out starkly in the 
hard gleaming light. The Harbour was full of bobbing 
punts. Every man was hurrying to give his boat all 
the chain in the locker. Each skiff was burying her 


x 


306 


GILLESPIE 


nose in the smother, and rip, ripping, at her chain. 
The wind veered about from north to north-west. At 
every nor’west scurry the Harbour was darkened with 
sleet, and the spindrift flew in grey clouds. Once more 
the fishing fleet was bottled up. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


The terns left early, and gulls were scavenging inland. 
Autumn waded through a roaring equinox which blistered 
the fleet. The land was filled with the boom of rain- 
lashed gales. Old Sandy prophesied dire weather. “ I 
saw three suns in the sky, an’ the win’s shifted oot o’ 
too many airts.” The brown nets on the poles along 
the Harbour were rotting, and could not be dried. The 
last birds to leave were the herons, which had watched 
on the shores in immobile gauntness as if carved out of 
grey rock. They flapped their heavy way like winged 
stone, leaving the Loch empty. 

A savage nihilism of storms beat upon the town. 
They leapt off the hills upon the Harbour with the rushing 
sound of a great saw cutting wood. They were mingled 
with hail, and when the gust roared past it left the hills 
white to the sea, as if a mighty smearing hand had passed 
across their face. The water was hard, and black like 
iron; but at every snarl when the wind veered into the 
north-west it suddenly whitened, as iron in a furnace. 
Men said that they saw evil omens in the skies — the 
moon swimming upon the clouds like a great bat with 
wings outspread upon the earth. The gables rushed up 
black in the rain, giving the town a naked appearance, 
and every window in Harbour Street was white with 
salt. The grip of the storm was upon the wet, huddled 
seaport, whose stones stood out in the scourged street 
like teeth in a skull. There was something sinister in 
the aspect of the town when, with a steely hard look 

307 


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upon it, it lay black and drying from the twilight rains. 
This was the common time of respite. In the morning 
the unwearied blowing worried the town again with 
fresh venom ! The beaches were loud and the streets 
resurgent with the noise and wash of the waters. The 
seas went up on the forelands as clouds of steam, and 
burst as snow. The men on the Quay head tasted salt, 
which parched and blistered as they watched the weather- 
worn squadron, rusty with the rains and bleached with 
spindrift. It froze during the night. In the morning a 
thawing wind was raw in the streets and whistled along 
the bases of the dripping hills. Sea-drift and rain beat 
upon a naked, shivering world. 

The snows came and the sheeted hills stood up from 
the black edge of the sea as white marble on a black 
plinth. The birds perished in the frozen ditches. In 
the silence of the snow could be heard their last cheeping. 
The colossal magnificence of the garmented hills be- 
numbed the minds of those who stared up from their 
low thresholds. Their leprous immensity deadened the 
souls of men. The horror of Nature was making them 
atheistic. Those monstrous hills appeared to swell as 
they gazed out, cowled across a grey sky of ice, above the 
bleating of mortals. Their passionless, unhungry strength 
sank down with crushing force on the race beneath, that 
was running its course with so many vicissitudes and 
pangs of disappointment, and on the salt-whitened skiffs 
riding out the winter. 

Day and night in the lulls the men had hauled their 
nets and found them empty. The great autumnal moons 
arose, whitened the land and passed; and the potatoes 
and the bag of meal waned, and went swiftly down to 
their winter setting. The dripping lines slipped from 
nerveless hands in the heart of the night, when the breakers 
boomed on the veiled shores. The great ghost snow- 


GILLESPIE 


309 


showers stalked out of the glens; and when the long 
seas confused the morning-light, the men despaired of 
the glory of the Lord and any Galilean peace more. 
From the doors of their houses that shook in the tempest 
they heard the snapping of pines on the forelands, and 
knew that the raging sea would drive the herring eye 
into the unsounded deep. The land was sour with snow, 
bleached with spindrift, raw with rain. “ The sky’s 
worn spewin’ snow and rain,” said the Bent Preen to 
his wife, who was wasted with weeping. The children 
fretted day long. There were no marriages. Those 
which had been loveless became hell ; those which had 
been of love meant a hell of anguish too. God seemed 
to hide His face behind the curtain of the snows. The 
men were in a fierce, morose temper. Some were inclined 
to believe in the ravings of Queebec. A judgment had 
befallen Brieston. They had suffered heat, plague, and 
tempest. Food was scarce. The school was deserted. 
The Jew stripped the Back Street and carried it in 
his pack to Glasgow. All the candles in the Back 
Street were burned, and it lay in darkness. Gillespie 
would give no credit. His eyes became flinty. Penury 
unmasked him. The bad state of trade gnawed like 
poison at his heart, and he came out into the open, 
militant. He taught his customers one sharp lesson, 
watching his opportunity. It was a Saturday night 
towards the close of the year, when the shop was full 
of women. One had asked for tea, sugar, butter, and 
cheese. As each parcel — made up in the leaves of medical 
journals rifled from the store — was laid on the counter, 
the woman hurriedly deposited it in a basket, and when 
the half-pound of butter — Gillespie’s own make — was 
laid on the counter, he stood rubbing his hands, for the 
night was bitter cold. The woman leaned forward with 
discreet face, and whispered in a strained voice. These 


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women had courage; they were out fighting for their 
children, privateering for their husbands. 

“ Mark it doon in the book, wull I ? ” Gillespie’s voice 
rang out loudly. In the tense silence which followed, 
the sharp whistling in his nostrils was heard by every 
woman present, as he leaned over the counter in turn 
and whipped everything out of the basket. His face 
was wolfish as the face of a looting Turk. 

“ I’m fair rooked gein tick ! ” and turning to the next 
customer, babbled of the impudence of scum that drink 
“ a’ their money and expec’ me to feed them. Ye’d 
think I was Goad Almighty to look aifter the sparrows.” 
These venomous and blasphemous words made the women 
shiver. Three of them stole out of the shop. His mood 
then suddenly changed. He had purged the counter, 
and now relieved the situation by diverting attention 
to the canaries he had stolen from the plague ship. 
Raising a cautioning hand he jocosely said, “ Quate there 
wi’ your feet; the hen’s havin’ a bath.” The customers 
awaited the pleasure of the lady -bird, till she had hopped 
up with glancing eyes, preening herself from the water. 

“ Noo, what dae ye want, mistress ? ” And as he cut 
the ham, with the tip of his tongue protruding — “ Isn’t 
that cock a fair whustler? He’s the boy to waken the 
street in the mornin’. They should pey me a penny a 
day for wakenin’ them, the lubbers ” — his cheery voice 
rattled on — “ I canna sell an alarm clock noo-a-days for 
thae confounded birds ” — his jovial face beamed on the 
women — “ I’ve a good mind to thraw their necks. 
Them sae per jink to feed too ” — The echo of his words 
was scarce dead — “ Ye’d think I was Goad Almighty to 
look aifter the sparrows ” — He grinned at the silent 
faces — “ A bonnie penny they cost, an’ a wastery o’ 
good time. Topsail or Sanny don’t ken when to change 
their water. Useless folk ! they just scar’ thae birds oot 


GILLESPIE 


311 


o’ their wuts. Ask Topsail to fetch chick-weed, and it’s 
nightshade she’ll bring, the murderer ” — His rollicking 
laugh rang through the shop. When business was 
finished for the night he would hold up a playful finger — 
“You sharp-eyed devil ! fine you ken a’ that’s goin’ on. 
Never mind, it’s another penny in the purse you’re 
seein’.” The cock mayhap would hop down and splash in 
the water — “ There you go, you knowin’ deevil. May 
ye never see Gillespie sterve. Some cat frae the Back 
Street wad get a grup o’ ye then,” and he would poke 
cheerful-wise at the bird with the point of a pen, till 
he realised he was wasting oil, and hurriedly turned out 
the lights. At the close -mouth he would stand gazing 
down the Square at Harbour Street smothered in snow, 
or screaming with wind, with the air of one reckoning 
on yet owning the street. The women who came to his 
shop resisted him as little as they would resist a pirate 
beneath his guns. He wanted the men in his power 
also, that he might possess the fleet, and tortured his 
brain, devising plan after plan to this end. He deemed 
that the elements were warring on his side. That very 
night Fate was to put a master plan in his grasp. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Times were so hard that Peter the jeweller closed his 
shop, and all his clocks were stopped. Every Saturday 
he used to wind the clock in the tower of the parish 
church with a big handle, climbing up among the drop- 
pings of windy birds to work at his inheritance; for his 
father, dead of an apoplexy while scaling the second 
flight of the narrow steep stair, had tamed Time there 
also within the gilt circle of the clock-face. Peter his 
son, having shut his shop, removed himself from the 
surging sea of the winds around the spire, and the clock 
by which Brieston set its time stopped. Men missed 
the solemn boom, and noticing the dead hands, concluded 
that religion, too, had perished in the blight that possessed 
Brieston. The gilt face of the clock in the turgid light 
was as the face of a corpse in candle-light. Men walked 
beneath it melancholy, bitter, darkened, morose, savage, 
without sanctuary, without hope. Old sorrows and old 
feuds were alike buried. People feared one thing — 
famine; watched one thing — the shop in the Square. 
Lowrie hinted to Gillespie that his shop would be looted. 

“ I’m ready for them any hour o’ the day or night,” 
and glancing up at the church he saw that the clock had 
stopped. He did not know the reason, for a certain 
tide of business still flowed in at his door, though it 
passed by the door of Peter the jeweller. Not even a 
queen can stave off grief with a necklace. 

Despite the lifeless clock the hour came when the 
bottom of the meal barrel grinned up in irony in the 
face of Red Duncan. The men had scraped the very 

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GILLESPIE 


313 


bottom of the Loch with sixty fathom string to the 
trawls. Heart-breaking work it was dragging them 
aboard empty from the ooze. No one from the Barracks 
to the “ Ghost ” had bought so much as a pennyworth 
of salt with which to cure the winter’s herring, and they 
were burning heather in the Back Street. Kate of the 
Left Hand, Red Duncan’s wife, went and bowed herself 
before Gillespie, who stood rubicund before her, with 
feet firmly planted on the floor. This woman was of 
one of those unfortunate families in which one commonly 
looks for signs of trouble. It would not surprise any one 
at any time to find one of its members running distractedly 
down the stair, wailing because of a death that had just 
taken place. Even in their gayest moments an air of 
fatality or a foreboding of ill hovers over their house. 
Red Duncan’s family was such a target for sorrow. 
Of him it was a saying, “ When the herring’s south, Red 
Duncan’s north.” Several years previously his house had 
been burned, and in the conflagration his wife had lost her 
right hand. Dr. Maclean had amputated the charred 
stump. Her left hand, as she now stood before Gillespie, 
was empty. 

“ I’ve never wance compleened since I lost my all the 
night o’ the fire. I’m stervin’.” 

“ Thae rats ! thae rats ! ” — it was alleged that rats 
eating into a box of matches had started the fire — “ Is’t 
no’ wonderfu’ hoo they beasties can herm us folk, ay ? ” 
Gillespie sighed. 

“ Wull ye gie me wan loaf, Maister Strang ? it’s no’ 
for mysel’ ; my waens is greetin’ wi’ hunger.” 

“ Breed’s up the noo a haepenny. That’ll be fower- 
pence.” 

“ I haena seen fowerpence this fortnight.” 

“ I’ll aye be glad to sell ye a loaf when ye hae the 
money.” 


314 GILLESPIE 

The woman’s eyes were as those of one who is being 
crucified. 

“ Wull ye no help me ? ” she pleaded. “ I’ll pey ye 
when I can.” 

“ I hear that story every day ee noo,” he answered 
drily; “ folk think I’m the Bank o’ Scotland.” 

A thing too deep for tears was in the woman’s face. 

“ Ye’re a hard man,” she said. “ I’ve three waens 
at hame, an’ I’m frichted to go back. I hope your waens, 
Maister Gillespie, will never ken the sufferin’ o’ mine.” 

Gillespie put on his spectacles, opened a ledger and 
shook his head. 

“ I’m fair weirin’ my eyes oot wi’ this rakin’ through 
a book o’ bad debts. I canna add more to ’t or I’ll be 
blin’.” He turned his broad shoulder to her. Kate of 
the Left Hand, with her eyes upon that shoulder, deliber- 
ated. The house which had been burned belonged to 
Gillespie, and was the house in which he had had his 
first shop. He was found to be so rapacious that no 
tenant would live in it longer than a single term. It was 
alleged that he could still find his way into the garret, 
which he still used as a store, by the road of the trap 
which he had cut there in the days when he was engaged 
in Sunday trading. To burn the old shop and get the 
insurance money was a good way of ridding himself of 
the task of finding new tenants. Such sinister rumours 
were afloat at the time the house was burned. 

Kate of the Left Hand drew her shawl about her head 
and her famished eyes swept round the well-stocked shop. 

“ Gillespie,” she said fiercely, “ tak’ good care the rats 
dinna eat your matches here. Ye ken wha’ fired the 
garret above me when I lost my all ? A gey an’ big 
grey rat.” 

He made a swift gesture of dismissal ; <( Ye needna open 
fire. I’ve heard a’ that before,” 


GILLESPIE 


315 


She flashed round on him. 

“ It’ll dae ye nae hairm to hear it again ; ” she snatched 
the shawl from her right shoulder, and exposed the 
pitiful stump. “ Look at it,” she cried; “ an’ ye’ll no’ 
gie me a loaf noo. You to say that ye’re no Goad 
Almighty to feed the sparrows an’ the waens. Wait, 
man, wait, the Almighty’s no’ done wi’ you yet. Ye’re 
good at mekin’ a bleeze. Maybe the next bleeze ’ill no 
please ye sae weel. I’ll dree my own weird ; but Goad ! 
I winna dree yours for a’ the gold in Calif orny.” 

“ Is ’t no’ wonnerfu’ ? ” Gillespie thought, gazing up at 
the hams hanging from hooks on the ceiling, “the wy 
they ding doon a chap as soon as he begins to get on a 
wee in the world.” 

Kate of the Left Hand, darting out of the Square round 
the Bank corner, ran into Topsail Janet. 

“ What’s wrong wi’ ye, Kate ? ” 

“ The waens are stervin’, an’ Gillespie put me oot o’ 
the shop.” 

Topsail pondered with a slack mouth of woe. “ There’s 
noathing I can prig in the hoose. He’s lik’ a jyler noo- 
a-days wi’ his keys, the misert. Come on,” she flashed, 
“ I’ll mand ye something.” She led Kate of the Left 
Hand to the ree, which was flanked by Gillespie’s stable, 
whose door Topsail opened. A brown mare with a 
mangy hide stood in one of the stalls. Topsail lifted the 
lid of a box leaning against the wall. 

“ Hold your bratty,” which, with a scoop, she filled 
with beans. “ Thon misert,” she jerked the scoop in the 
direction of the Square, “ coonts the feed; but the mear 
can sterve for wan day. It’ll be something for the waens 
to chow. There, noo,” she patted Kate maternally; 
“ afore the beans is done, ye’ll mand a bite somewhere. 
Try Lonend for a pickle auld potatoes.” 

Sulky night fell on the Back Street. The children, 


316 


GILLESPIE 


pinched and blue-veined, were huddled together asleep ; j 
husband and wife sat in stony silence. The last word 
of Red Duncan had been to rave at the keeper of the 
destinies of men. Misery like a beak was tearing his 
heart. 

“ The morn’s Sunday,” he said; “the Lord’s Day,” 
and lapsed into the silence of hopeless abandonment. 
The rusty gaping grate had the malevolence of an evil 
eye, watching these two figures of stone. 

A wail came from the floor inside the wooden frame 
where the bed had been. The cold had wakened the 
children. The woman lifted her head. She had the 
appearance of a wild beast protecting its litter. The man 
eyed her fiercely. 

“ Noathin’ to pawn % ” he croaked. 

“ Noathin,” she gasped; “an’ I’m telt the Jew ’ill 
tek’ nae mair stuff ony wy.” His blood turned to water 
as the fretting wail became louder. 

“ Mither ! oh, mither ! gie’s a piece ; a wee bit ; I’m 
stervin’ wi’ hunger.” 

“ Wheest, son, your mither ’ill gie ye some more beans, 
an’ ye’ll hae a braw breakfast the morn.” 

“ Will it be toast ? ” 

“ Ay, son ! toast an’ jeely.” 

She groped to the corner at the window ; but the beans 
were finished. She groaned, and like a gaunt sibyl 
stretched out her bony hand to the darkened window. 

“ Goad in heaven, wull ye no’ hae peety ? ” 

The children began to whimper; the mother to sob. 

“ Katie, my wumman, are ye greetin’ at lang an’ 
last ? ” The sound of his gnashing teeth like a dog’s was 
terrible in the room. In a tone which he had not heard 
before — the tone of one who is on the brink of the Pit — 
she answered : 

“ Greetin’ ! ay, my breist’s burnin’, burnin’.” 


GILLESPIE 317 

Then Red Duncan put on his cap and went out to 
steal. 

Gillespie sat at the kitchen table over his ledger in a 
brown study. The bones of the impoverished town were 
his for the lifting, and he saw himself squeezing out 
their marrow. Topsail was cleaning up the supper 
dishes in the sink; his wife was seated in the corner at 
the fire with a pile of socks on her lap, for Topsail had 
insisted that she should be found of Gillespie on some 
active task. Mrs. Strang was darning in a desultory 
fashion, for she loathed the work. A dull noise was 
heard in the shop. Gillespie lifted his head alertly. 

“ Did ye hear a noise ablow ? ” he asked. 

“ It’ll be a rat in the shop,” and Topsail went on with 
her washing. 

“ Wheest, wull ye, wi’ that clatter ! ” Topsail stopped. 
There was nothing to be heard but the beating of the 
rain on the window. 

“ Gie me my boots,” he said sharply ; “ a man in his 
stockin’ soles has no chance.” He put them on and 
picked up the poker from the fender. He always carried 
the keys of the shop in his pocket. “ Where’s the 
candle ? ” Topsail glanced towards the dresser. He 
followed her glance and saw the candle. 

“ There’s nae rats in my shop,” he growled as he lifted 
the sneck. 

He crept along the passage, unlocked the back door 
of the shop, and left it open as a way of retreat, for he 
had no stomach for an encounter in the dark. He stood 
in the back office breathing quickly and listening. A 
gust of wind snarling at the door made his heart jump, 
and a wave of heat spread over his head. Would he 
steal out and fetch the policeman ? By that time the 
thief would be gone. He imagined some one ready to 


318 


GILLESPIE 


strike or spring at him. The drumming of the rain went 
on without in the thick night, and the wind whined through 
the passage. He took a stealthy step towards his desk 
against the wall beside the fireplace, laid down the poker 
on the desk, and struck a match. As it fluttered in the 
draught and went out he heard a brushing as of clothes 
touching something in the front shop, and his hand shook. 
He struck another match hurriedly, and lit the candle, 
sheltering the flame with his hand, as it died down, and 
struggled back to life. Fear of imminent peril crouching 
somewhere overcame him. At that moment he noticed 
the window. The glass had been broken at the catch, 
and the window was wide open. He shifted the candle 
to his left hand and picked up the poker. 

“ Come oot o’ that, ye blaiggart ! ” he roared, his heart 
choking in his throat. A man stepped through the 
counter opening and stood in the doorway between the 
back office and the shop. Gillespie’s amazement over- 
came him for a moment when he saw Red Duncan, 
meagre, thin with hunger, nerveless with detection. At 
the sight of the man’s confusion and hang-dog air, 
Gillespie’s aplomb rushed back upon him, and for a 
moment he felt kindly disposed to the unlucky thief, for 
the relief his pusillanimous presence afforded. He walked 
up to Red Duncan, holding the candle between them. 

“ It’s yersel’, Donnacaidh.” 

The other made no answer. 

“ A wild night to be oot for a bit tobacco.” 

Red Duncan leaned against the counter and sobbed 
out : “ I’m done for ! ” 

“ Ay ! it’s the jyle for ye, Donnacaidh.” 

“ Mo thruaigh ! mo thruaigh ! I never stealt in my 
life before.” 

“ Sixty days if it’s a meenut. Ye’ll be namely a’ over 
Brieston.” 


GILLESPIE 


319 


“ For Goad’s sake, gie’s a chance. Man ! man ! if ye 
heard my waen’s greetin’ the night. I’ll do anything for 
| ye. Gie’s wan chance.” 

“ Weel,” Gillespie had laid down the poker and was 
t smoothing his cheek with his hand; “ I’m no that bad- 
he’rted I wad send any man to jyle.” 

“ No ! no ! ” Red Duncan quavered ; “ we a’ ken that.” 

Gillespie, who had been keenly scrutinising him, 
suddenly extended to him the candle. “ Hold the 
! cannle. I’m goin’ to trait ye better nor ye deserve, 
cornin’ alarmin’ dacent folk in the deid o’ night.” 

“ If ye’d been in oor hoose the night ye’d ha’ done 
the same,” Red Duncan bleated. 

Gillespie quietly surveyed the shop. 

“ An what were ye thrang at when I spoiled the ploy ? ” 

Red Duncan stepped backwards and pointed to the 
! recess beneath the counter, in which three loaves, part 
of a ham, and a tin of salmon were lying. 

“ Ay ! ay ! nane sae bad, an’ breid up an’ Irish sae 
i dear.” He lifted the goods on to the counter, where they 
lay on the long polished surface, isolated, accusatory. 
Gillespie disappeared behind a pile of stuff in the midst 
of the floor, and returned with a basket. 

“ Noo, Donnacaidh ” — he spoke briskly, and laid a 
hand on Red Duncan’s shoulder as he passed — “ I’ll tek’ 
peety on ye for the sake o’ the wife an’ waens. Ye’ll 
no’ can say I’m bad.” 

The man was exhausted and tears sprang in his eyes; 
the clear drops falling on the wiry red beard. 

“ I canna thank ye, Gillespie.” 

Gillespie walked to the butter kit. 

“ Hold the cannle here,” he commanded. By force of 
habit Red Duncan went to the customer’s side of the 
counter and leaned over, candle in hand. 

“ Come awa’ roond, man ; dinna be sae blate.” 


320 


GILLESPIE 


Gillespie scrupulously weighed 12 lb. of butter; cut 
a hunk of cheese and weighed it; sugar 12 lb. ; tea 12 lb. ; 
packed them up, and put them in the basket ; weighed 
the ham, and put it with six loaves along with the 
other stuff. Neither man spoke a word till Gillespie took 
the candle from Red Duncan. 

“ Cairry ben the basket,” he ordered. They went into 
the back office. Gillespie dropped some candle grease 
on the writing board of the desk, and struck the end of 
the candle in the grease. 

“ Noo,” he said, “ you’ll tek’ home thae vittels.” 

The one side of Red Duncan’s face was deeply shadowed, 
the other was twitching in the candle-light. “ I’ll pey 
ve, Gillespie, I’ll pey ye wi’ the first fushin’.” 

“ That’s the talk, Donnacaidh. Ye’re no’ like a wheen 
o’ thae blaiggarts that’ll tek’ an’ tek’ an’ when they win 
a penny they’re off to Brodie’s.” 

“ No ! my hands to Goad.” 

Gillespie interrupted him brusquely. 

“ Ye’ll see I’m no’ cheatin’ ye.” He drew a sheet of 
paper towards him and took up a pen. 


s. d. £ s. d. 

12 lb. sugar @ 2\ . 2 6 

12 lb. cheese @ 10 10 0 

12 lb. butter @14. . . 160 

12 lb. tea @18. . . 100 

| doz. loaves @ 3J . 19 

7 lb. ham @12... 82 


He looked up smiling at Red Duncan. “ 
me at the expense o’ the brocken winda’ ? ” 
Red Duncan nodded. 


Ye’ll no’ hae 


s. d. 

1 pane glass . . .16 

1 candle ..... 1 

“ Let me see noo” — he was chewing the point of the 


GILLESPIE 


321 


pen, and counting on his fingers — “ that mek’s three 
pounds nate. Is it no’ astonishin’ the wy it cam oot — 
nate the three poun’ ? ” Red Duncan stared fascinated, 
Gillespie wheeled round in his chair — “ You an’ me ’ill 
mek’ a bargain, Donnacaidh,” he said. Gillespie was laugh- 
ing silently at his victim — “ I ken what it is to hae a stervin’ 
wife an’ waens.” Red Duncan, still under the spell of 
fascination, blinked; “ I’m goin’ to show ye a wy to keep 
the wolf frae the door a’ winter.” 

“ I wish to Goad I knew ! ” Red Duncan blurted. 

“ Weel, ye needna wait for the fushin’ to pey me ” 
— Gillespie was purring now ; his eyes wheedling as well as 
his voice — “ ye’ll can pey me noo. That’s the wy ony 
dacent man wad do.” 

“ But I hevna a roost.” 

“ Hoots, man ! ” — Gillespie jabbed him playfully with 
the point of his pen — “ ye’ve a fourth share in the 
Bella — boat an’ nets.” 

“ Ay.” 

The Bella was a new caravel, built for trawling, and 
cost a hundred and ten pounds ; the trawl-net cost thirty 
pounds. Anchor and chains, sails, and other gear forty 
pounds — a hundred and eighty pounds in all. 

“ Say we’ll tek’ thirty pounds off, seein’ she’s been oot 
a season. That mek’s a hundred and fifty pounds. A 
fourth share is thirty-seven pounds ten shullin’s.” 

“ She’s as good as new,” said Red Duncan, suddenly 
awake. “ The net hasna gone ower her side since she 
left the carpenter’s shed.” 

“ Weel ! weel ! say twenty pounds off. That leaves 
a hundred and sixty pounds — forty pounds a fourth 
share. Dinna argle-bargle a’ night an’ the waens greetin’ 
wi’ hunger. Noo you sign a bill to me for your share, 
an’ I’ll feed you an’ yours a’ the winter. Ye’ve gotten 
three pounds worth here in the basket.” 

Y 


322 


GILLESPIE 


44 Can ye no’ wait ? ” pleaded the dumbfounded man, who 
saw himself being enmeshed. “ I’ll can easy pey ye the 
three poun’ wi’ the first good fishin’.” 

“ Man ! I canna hev’ my money lyin’ oot that long 
thae bad times. I’ve to pey the traivellers. Ye don’t 
ken what it is to hev’ them girnin’ in your face for money.” 

Red Duncan, unable to rebut this, was silent. 

44 Think o’ your wife an’ waens cryin’ for breid a’ the 
winter ” — he grinned in Red Duncan’s face. 44 It’s no’ as 
if Katie could go oot an’ work. Wha’ll gie work to a 
wan-airmed wumman ? ” 

Red Duncan shifted from one foot to the other, and a 
fine sweat broke out on his forehead. 44 The other men 
’ill ken,” he said wretchedly. 

Gillespie laughed scornfully. 

44 The other men ’ill be gey gled to do the same afore 
the spring. I canna tek’ up the hale fleet. I’m gein 
ye your chance noo, Donnacaidh.” His argument was 
persuasive. 

44 1 canna ! I canna ! ” 

Gillespie’s face hardened, and he rose ponderously to 
his feet. 

44 Ye gomeril,” he said; 44 I’ll no’ tek’ ye to the jyle 
the nicht for shop-breakin’ ; but I’ll gie ye in chairge the 
morn. Ye’ll fin’ oot the Shurrif in Ardmarkie ’ill no dale 
wi’ ye lik’ Gillespa’ Strang.” 

Red Duncan was cowed. 44 If I hae the money I’ll 
can buy my share back ? ” he asked. 

44 Ou ! there’s naethin’ to hinder ye, Donnacaidh.” 
The answer was airy ; and he clapped Red Duncan on the 
shoulder. 44 Sign the bill noo an’ be off wi’ the basket 
afore it gets any later.” 

Red Duncan took up the pen in a shaky hand. 

44 Ay ! there across the stamp ; that’s my he’rty ; the 
date noo. It’s no just the right kin’ o’ bill this; but 


GILLESPIE 


323 


ye’ll step doon come Monday morn. I’ll get the Spider 
to mek’ oot a right wan.” He scrupulously dried the 
wet ink with blotting-paper. 

“ Noo ye’ve paid your lawin’ I’ll gie ye a fill for a 
smoke on the road home.” Gillespie passed into the shop 
and returned with about an inch of thin black tobacco. 
“ Gie my compliments to your wife an’ say she’s no’ to 
be blate aboot cornin’ for proveesions.” Candle in hand 
Gillespie showed out Red Duncan with the basket on 
his shoulder. 

“ Good-night, Donnacaidh,” Gillespie cried, shielding 
the candle from the wind and rain; “see an’ send the 
boy doon wi’ the basket on Monday.” 

Red Duncan passed in silence into the night, bearing 
his cross. 

Gillespie returned to his desk chuckling. He owned 
the fourth share of a boat and net. The custom was to 
divide the price of a week’s take of herring into five 
shares — one share for each of the four men of the crew, 
and one share for the boat and the net, after an allow- 
ance had been made for the week’s stores. Gillespie 
would now draw his share for this boat and net, and 
Red Duncan would do the work for him, suffering the 
exposure and the peril. Gillespie reckoned that one 
month’s good fishing would refund him in the amount he 
would expend on food to Red Duncan’s family. There- 
after his share in the boat would constitute a source of 
revenue season after season without burden. He looked 
forward to getting many of the boats in his possession 
in this way before the spring. He would choose the 
neediest crews, and point out how Red Duncan was 
comfortably passing the winter. These fishermen would 
become his servants. He had no intention of re-selling 
his share, either to Red Duncan or to any other gomeril. 
He took two black-striped balls from a long glass bottle 


324 


GILLESPIE 


and put one in his mouth. He always treated himself 
in this fashion after a good stroke of business. Then he 
barricaded the broken window, locked the door, and went 
upstairs. His wife lay on her back, mouth open, snoring. 
She awoke on his entrance. 

“ Who’s that ? ” she asked, half sitting up in bed. 

“ It’s me! ” He crossed to the bedside, and put a 
black-striped ball between her lips. 44 Hae a sweety,” 
he said. She looked at him with sleepy eyes. 4 4 1 was 
kin’ o’ a wee lucky the night,” he purred. 

44 What time is it ? ” she asked. 

He examined a heavy silver watch. 

44 A quarter to one.” 

44 Where have you been all this time ? ” She stretched 
out her neck towards him and yawned. 

44 Hoots ! pookin’ a gull.” 

44 Ye took your time to the job,” she said, without 
understanding. 

He flung off his coat and answered gaily : 

44 Never be in a hurry to lowse a stot frae a good 
pleugh.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


The penury of Brieston became more and more galling 
to Gillespie, being a bit in the mouth of his progress. 
The feelings of humanity had seldom much claim upon 
him. If he took profit from his transactions, he esteemed 
as nothing the injury he was inflicting on others. His 
conduct now became venomous, his mind rancorous. 
Perhaps the fact that his folk were of another soil and 
blood blinded him to the hatred he was exciting. 
Gradually a considerable part of the fishing fleet had 
been pawned to him, and he conceived the sinister plan 
of getting possession of the whole fleet, and making the 
fishermen his servants. The people had passed now from 
suspicion to hostility, avowed and open. In times of 
sedition the smallest particulars are seized upon and 
given an exaggerated meaning. Ugly rumours of Gil- 
lespie’s maltreatment of his wife were rife. He was 
of a Lowland breed. It was not only hardship but 
shame and dishonour that such an incomer should hold 
the reins of the town. Big Finla’, who was the present 
occupant of Gillespie’s house in the Back Street, com- 
plained of a smoking vent, and asked Gillespie to have 
it put right. Finlay’s son was consumptive, and Maclean 
said that the smoke would be the death of the boy. 
Gillespie refused. The father, exasperated, swore he would 
have it done at his own expense, and Gillespie then ordered 
the plumber to “ rig up a granny o’ the very best on the 
lum, one that’ll do a lifetime, an’ chairge it on Finla’.” The 
thing came out because Finlay when asked to pay refused. 

325 


326 


GILLESPIE 


Daily there were tales of Gillespie’s greed, which went 
to swell the volume of gathering wrath. His bonds were 
not only drawn tightly across the town; he travelled 
among the farmers and encamped among the wool. 
Once a man was in his grip Gillespie was quietly savage, 
like frost. He had snared Dalrymple, a small farmer 
behind Lonend, loading his carts with stuff — meal, flour, 
potato seed, and fodder through the spring and blazing 
weather; and then jumped on his man. 

“ Gie’s time, Gillespa’ ! I can dae naethin’ wi’ the 
grun’. It’s soor wi’ rain.” 

44 Man, Dalrymple, dae ye want me to supply ye wi’ 
weather too ? What’s the use o’ a’ your prayer-meetin’s 
on Wednesday nights ? ” The farmer, a pious man, was 
shocked, but was forced to conceal his mortification. 
4 4 My advice to ye ” — Gillespie was smiling coldly — 44 is 
to redd up your ain hoose an’ dung your bit parks, an’ 
pey your debt afore ye put on a collar for the prayer- 
meetin’, an’ put siller in the kirk plate.” 

44 Mr. Strang,” replied the incensed man; 44 it’s no’ 
against me you’re speakin’ : it’s against God.” 

Gillespie waved an impatient hand. 44 Nae sermons ! 
nae sermons ! I’m needin’ my money.” 

44 I’ll pey ye come the back-end. I don’t ask this for 
mysel’. Ye wadna roup out my wife an’ waens.” 

44 Ay, ay ! the same cry. Every wan o’ ye run behind a 
petticoat.” 

Dalrymple was nettled. 44 It’s no’ for me to give way 
to anger, Mr. Strang, but I wad haud my tongue about 
petticoats. It’ll p’raps be a gey ill day for ye yet that 
ye ever took up wi’ Lonen’s daughter, if a’ accoonts be 
true.” 

Gillespie’s face became sour. 

44 It’s only a blaiggart that wad throw a man’s ain 
dung at him,” he cried; but in a moment the old coaxing 


GILLESPIE 


327 


returned to his voice. “ I’ll show ye I’m no’ hard on 
any honest man wi’ a faimly. I’ll gie ye till the back-end 
to pey me.” 

Gillespie saw Dairy mple out of the shop, ruminating 
on the seven per cent, he had squeezed out of the farmer 
for the months of grace. Dairy mple was also ruminating. 
“ Him to talk o’ the prayer-meetin’. The fire an’ 
sulphur o’ Sodom and Gomorrah will devour him yet” — 
Dairy mple smiled grimly — “ an’ then I’ll hae nae debt 
to pey him. The fire an’ brimstone ’ill pey the lawin.” 

In his unimaginative, dogged way he clung tenaciously 
to the idea, and crossed over to Lonend in the afternoon 
to consult Logan about the seven per cent. He had a 
large simple faith in sturdy Lonend, whom he found 
bending over a tarnished looking-glass, and with moistened 
fingers carefully arranging wisps of hair over the bald 
spot on the crown of his head. Lonend, about to pay a 
visit to Mrs. Galbraith, was informed by Dairy mple of 
his visit to Gillespie. 

“ He’s got ye nailed, Dalrymple,” said Lonend. “ I 
ken the breed an’ seed o’ him fine. I’ve eaten salt wi’ 
him. Ye don’t ken a man till ye’ve eaten a bushel o’ 
salt thegither.” The squat sturdy figure swung round on 
Dalrymple. “ Ye’re no’ the only wan. Hide an’ hair 
he’s stripped Brieston. The toon’s gettin’ too small for 
him. He should hae been livin’ wi’ the tobacco lords o’ 
the Trongate. There’s some folk greet wi’ evil an’ spite, 
but ye can mek’ noathin’ o’ him — thon deid calm. He’s 
got the bulk o’ the fleet in his grup.” 

“ The vagabond,” answered Dalrymple uneasily; “ it’s 
the fire an’ brimstone o’ Sodom an’ Gomorrah that’ll 
devour him yet. God will not be mocked.” 

Something in those familiar last words made Lonend 
shudder. Suddenly an idea seized him. The pupils of 
his eyes contracted and they glowed upon Dalrymple, 


328 


GILLESPIE 


“ By Goad ! ” he said ; “ you’ve struck it, man. They’re 
stupid doon by in Brieston about their boats. I hear 
they want to seize them. Fire ! fire an’ brimstone ” — 
Lonend clenched his jaw — “ he was fond enough o’ fire 
when Red Duncan’s wife nearly lost her life. Gie him 
his gutsfu’ o’t noo.” 

“ Wheest ! wheest ! Lonen’,” pleaded Dalrymple, 
terrified at the effect which his words produced. “ Ven- 
geance belongeth to the Lord; He will repay.” 

“ You’ve struck it, man ! ” cried Lonend, carried away. 
“ The bulk o’ the fleet’s Gillespie’s. By the Lord ! 
Dalrymple, but I’m gled ye cam’ here the day. I’ll back 
your seeven per cent, for this.” 

“Will ye ? ” asked Dalrymple, with snapping eyes. 

“ Ay ! by Goad ! that will I, an’ sign it by the lowe o’ 
Gillespie’s fleet.” 

That evening Lonend divulged certain things to Mrs. 
Galbraith, and sitting with his stumpy legs held wide, 
and his hands hanging loosely between them, asked her 
if she would marry him. 

There was a tense silence in the room for a moment 
as Lonend raised his eyes furtively and riveted them on 
a mole on Mrs. Galbraith’s cheek. Her full bosom rose 
and fell in short, quick pants. At last she turned her 
dark brilliant eyes on Lonend, making no attempt to 
conceal the expression of nausea on her face. 

“ Have you thought of Morag ? ” she asked, in a low 
stiff voice. “ What will become of her if Mr. Strang 
loses the fleet by fire ? ” 

“ She’s as ill-off as ever she’ll be,” he answered, drop- 
ping his eyes before her withering look. 

When he raised them again, because of her continued 
silence, she held out her hand. 

“ Good-night,” she said deliberately. “ I shall marry 
you if you burn the boats which belong to Mr. Strang.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Lonend assiduously fomented ill-feeling against 
Gillespie. The Pump was up in arms. 

4 4 Souple, souple Gillespie/’ said Nan at Jock, whose 
son was once more returned from the ends of the earth. 
“ God be thankit. I’m no’ in his raiverence. The 
slinkin’ greedy face he has.” 

Mary Bunch craned her little dark head forward. 
44 We’ll soon a’ be independent o’ him. Ye ken I’ve a 
nesty bitter tongue, an’ it’ll no’ do for me to open fire. 
But just wait you. Lonen’ is the boy for him. There’s 
goin’ to be rippets. Petery McKinnon’s sweirin’ him 
terrible. He ca’ed his boy at the christinin’ aifter 
Gillespie, thinkin’ it wad soften him, for they’re deep in 
his debt. An’ what div ye think he said to Petery’s 
wife ? ” 

No answer was hazarded. 

44 Sez he, 4 See that he mak’s good use o’ the name.’ ” 

44 Ach ! ach ! is he no’ the mean scart ? ” said Black Jean ; 
44 it’ll soon be a deserted toon wi’ his ongoin’s, an’ no’ a 
lum reekin’.” 

Lonend, more than any other, helped to bring about 
this moral earthquake. But the people, apart from 
Lonend’s influence, were already deep in hatred. It 
leaked out that some of the men were mortgaging their 
shares in the boats to Gillespie. His avarice made them 
avaricious. They paid him as if coin were heart-blood. 
He bought by stealth and sold with consummate cunning ; 
took in the day and gave in the dark, He was a busy 

329 


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GILLESPIE 


moth in the decayed estates of the impoverished. Many 
were now actually afraid of his whistling nostril. The 
sibilant sound was likened by the Butler to the devil 
putting a whistle to his lips at the mouth of the Pit. 
The morning found him on the outposts of occasion as 
February came in; and at night he was a framer of 
traps, snares, and gins. In his eyes, the will of God was 
exercised in heaven only; the earth being purely a field 
of human activity — a theory as old as the human race. 
In practice Gillespie had a new mastery of this theory, 
as he bruised bees for their honey, and battered bald 
heads with a harp, giving no one a chance to smell powder. 
The rat McAskill was his right-hand man. Gillespie, 
however, was unaware that times occur in the history 
of nations and of communities when law is whirled away 
like a withered leaf in the tempest of a people’s revolt. 
Such a time was coming to Brieston. What right had 
an interloper to seize the chief power in Brieston and 
enslave its folk ? Red Duncan’s family had now eaten 
the share of his boat; and Red Duncan was not chary 
of telling how he had been ensnared. Brieston was 
weary of its lot — burned with the heat, blistered with 
gales, and trapped by a pirate. The people were worn 
with vicissitude and savage at their impotence in being 
driven to sell their birthright for a mess at Gillespie’s 
hands. They had imagined him a public benefactor, 
but recognised now that all along Lonend was right. 
In bitterness they formulated the axiom that many 
kings have ascended thrones only to tax the people. 
Lonend’s denunciation had all the more force that his 
own daughter was married to Gillespie. 

Distress had now in many families come to a head. 
Some of their members had gone to Glasgow, Clydebank, 
Port Glasgow, and Greenock, seeking work in the ship- 
building yards ; but many of the hammers on Clydeside 


GILLESPIE 


331 


were silent and the yards half empty. Glasgow Harbour 
was full of idle ships. Tired of being sent from one 
gate to another of the yards, the men returned home 
dispirited and without money. They were goaded by 
ill-luck, blighting weather, the wretched state of their 
families, and the prospect of entering on the spring 
fishing season no longer their own masters. Some swore 
they would not lift an anchor, though it was pointed out 
that if they remained ashore they would starve. Others 
suggested seizing the boats and using them as if they 
were their own. Gillespie would baulk them in this, 
however, because he would withhold provisions and 
gear. Brieston was heaving in the throes of anarchy, 
and a low growl of despair like the snarl of a caged 
beast was heard. The people had reached that pitch 
when all that is needed is a leader to give them 
initiative. 

It was said that a cat had been boiled and eaten in 
MacCalman’s Lane. This turned the blood of Brieston 
to gall. Queebec at the time was preaching at the shoe- 
maker’s shop on the breast wall to a deep sullen crowd. 
He raved of portents which he saw in the sky, and 
threatened the shop in the Square with outstretched hand 
which gripped a Bible. 

“ Let him come out and answer for his sins. It is 
the day of the Lord, a terrible day of vengeance. I see 
fire and blood.” He spoke of cometary lights and 
blazing apparitions in the heavens, wizardry in the air, 
over a land that was a field of blood. “ Let Judas be 
hanged in it ! ” he screamed ; “ Heaven will have no mercy 
till the blood of Andy is avenged.” He heard a rushing 
mighty noise by night proclaiming woe. An angel armed 
with a sword was on the Loch. Funerals passed in the 
clouds, with long-maned black horses champing in the 
air. Apparitions appeared in the graveyard. 


332 GILLESPIE 

Horror stagnated in the faces of the men as they 
listened. 

“ Your churches will become empty : you will learn 
to rob each other. Gillespie has your very lives in 
pledge. He has taken a bond on the services of your 
wives and daughters for a dole of food. He has your 
very heart-blood. Woe, woe to you ! Woe, woe to 
the despoiler and the vampire ! Will you stand by any 
longer ? ” The man’s eye flashed from end to end of the 
line of men. “ To the Lodge ! to the Lodge ! ” he screamed. 

A guttural growl broke out — “ To the Lodge ! ” 

The next moment the black tide of men, headed by 
Queebec, was pouring down Harbour Street in the direction 
of the Good Templars’ Hall. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


Every public meeting was held within these walls. 
This meeting, ostensibly an inspiration, had in reality 
been convened by Lonend, who had heard of Red Duncan’s 
escapade. Together they had concerted a plan for 
working up the people through Queebec’s philippics. 
Lonend, with a packed jury in the Lodge, had as his 
chief concern the finding of a chairman for the meeting. 
There was one nicknamed Barnacles, a notability of the 
town, an undersized, podgy, middle-aged man of a good 
family, who had been rusticated in Brieston by his folk 
in the Borders, Peebles way. Stuart, the parish minister, 
received one pound per week, paid quarterly, for his board ; 
and it was stipulated that on no account was his boarder 
to receive spirituous liquor of any kind. He was nick- 
named Barnacles from the appearance of his face, which 
was covered with large, fiery pimples. He was a fluent 
speaker, and was in constant demand to act as chairman 
at concerts and public gatherings, where he always 
appeared in a Harris tweed suit. Except the Laird’s 
gamekeepers he was the only man in Brieston who wore 
knickerbockers. He was fond of children — of whom he 
had often a following — was an accomplished German 
scholar, and sang German songs at the Banker’s evening 
parties to his own accompaniment on the piano. At 
such entertainments it was a sight to see Stuart’s sister 
languish on a couch, making eyes at Maclean as she said, 
“ Oh ! Mr. Elliot, do play us that charming thing of 

333 


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GILLESPIE 


Beethoven’s you played in the manse last night.” In 
the manse Miss Stuart treated him ill-favouredly. “ You 
know one’s house is not one’s own with him about,” she 
would say condescendingly to Mrs. Tosh. Stuart treated 
him more decently, especially as on occasion Barnacles 
presented the minister with an excellent sermon, full of 
German philosophy and theology. He knew the Rhine 
as well as Brieston, and passed his life tramping about 
the country in which he had become a proficient Gaelic 
scholar. He knew every person’s business, and boasted 
that after forty minutes reading of the Glasgow Herald 
he could answer any question on its contents. He spoke 
of politicians as if they were his intimates, and he was 
chairman of the local Liberal Club. He ought not to be 
Liberal, he said; but was disgusted with the landowners 
of the Borders — “ a peevish, stupid class who battened 
on the land.” He was readily bribed with a bottle. So 
we find Red Duncan proposing him “ for the chair,” 
and the little fat Barnacles taking the platform in 
knickers. Commonly he was loquacious; to-night terse, 
for the bottle and the five-pound note which Lonend 
had promised him were awaiting him in the peace that 
lay beyond these voices. In virile language he pointed 
out the flagrant piracy of Mr. Strang. It was prepos- 
terous to think that the whole fleet was to ride at his 
command, and that he had hired the very services of 
their wives and children for the gutting season. Suppose 
that season were a good one, the cream of it would go 
to Gillespie, who would be enriched in idleness, while 
they bore the brunt. The Hall was packed to the door. 
Even women had fought for entry as if a new miracle of 
loaves and fishes was about to be performed. 

“ He supposes himself to be the saviour of the town 
in these hard times. Let him prove it now. Ask him 
to give up possession of the boats he holds on the promise 


GILLESPIE 335 

that his money shall be repaid during the coming season. 
Put him to the test.” 

Barnacles ceased talking and looked around the sea 
of faces. “ I call for the names of three men who will 
go to him now with this proposition.” 

Lonend’s packed jury responded. 

Peepin was one. He lived in a smack like an old 
Viking, and raked the Quay head among the fishermen 
asking for “ old chows.” This chewed tobacco he dried 
and smoked. He coughed incessantly, with a hacking 
sound, and was often to be seen very lonely, drawing 
his scavenging of the day in a barrow about the streets 
in the twilight — a melancholy spectacle which was a 
resume of the toil of humanity, labouring in the light 
beneath the sky and seeking a roof at eventide. The 
Solan was another, a notable free-thinker, who had 
sucked his opinions in his youth from Glasgow Green. 
He denied any sort of power in the heavens or upon the 
earth; and he had cause, said Maclean, for no power 
was of any avail to cure his chronic dyspepsia. The 
veterinary surgeon, a tall supple man, always accompanied 
with a following of dogs, had tested the Solan by offering 
him a leaf of an old Bible and a box of matches, with 
which to light his pipe. As the Solan contemptuously 
was about to make a spill of the leaf, his eye caught these 
words, underlined with ink — “ I was betrayed in the 
house of my friends.” His pinched, sickly face took on 
a greenish hue; his prominent red nose appeared to 
burn. 

“ Light it with your nose, Solan ! ” some one cried. 

From that hour the god had feet of clay. The Solan 
was anxious to retrieve himself by doing something 
conspicuous for his fellow-men, and offered himself as a 
delegate with Peepin. Red Duncan made up the third 
of the trio. 


336 


GILLESPIE 


They found Gillespie, who had heard there was an 
insurrection of the people, armed with a gun. 

Barnacles sat in the chair, awaiting their return, and 
the boys in the gallery wiled away the time shouting 
songs : 

“Oh, Donal’ ! Oh, Donal’ ! 

Drink your gless, lad, and gang awa’ hame, 

For if ye’ll tarry langer ye’ll get a bad name; 

So drink your gless, lad, an’ fill yoursel’ fou. 

The lang wud’s sae dreary, but I’ll see ye through .’ 1 

The trio returned. 

“ I’ll hae naethin’ to do wi’ the scum o’ Brieston ” — 
the Solan reported Gillespie to Barnacles, who sat smugly, 
his thick legs apart and arms, which seemed to grow out 
of his hip, akimbo. “ Ye’re just a’ wheen blaiggarts that’s 
runnin’ your race for the jyle.” 

Barnacles rose to his feet, and waved a fat white hand. 

“ Gentlemen,” he declaimed, “ you have heard Mr. 
Strang bleat. His answer is of scoundrels and of the 
greed of dishonest men. I have no doubt he brought 
into play his famous smile of usury.” 

Barnacles got no further. 

“ The wolf ! he would cast lots for the seamless gar- 
ment,” some one shouted at the back of the Hall. Few 
recognised that it was Campion’s voice. Immediately 
there was a scene of confusion. Voices rang out over 
the Hall. 

“ He’s only fit to be minched doon an’ made bait for 
a lobster pot.” 

“ He stealt oor boats frae us. He told us we needna 
compleen,” a dark-a- vised foreign-looking man was 
shouting ; “he said he’d gie us another boat, an’ you 
bate he gied us wan. Dae ye ken what was in her ? ” 
he roared ; “ noathin’ but rats ; a fair riddle to droon 
men. A life is noathin’ to thon man.” 


GILLESPIE 


337 


“ By Goad, we’ll get to windward o’ him noo ; we’ll 
put a clove hitch on him; ” another voice was distin- 
guished in the babel. 

At that moment Red Duncan stepped on to the plat- 
form beside Barnacles, and the tumult suddenly ceased. 
“ Boys,” he shouted, “ Gillespie is sitting up yonder wi’ 
a gun in his hand. He’ll no yield an inch. * They’re 
my boats,’ he said. “ Are ye for lettin’ them be, boys ? 
He burned me oot o’ hoose an’ hame for the insurance 
money ; he burned the airm off my wife. He threatened 
me wi’ the jyle when she was stervin’, an’ then stole 
my share o’ the Bella. He’s good at burnin’.” 

Queebec arose in the midst of the Hall. “ Vengeance ! 
Vengeance ! the sword o’ the Lord an’ Gideon. Burn the 
boats ; it’s the only way.” 

“ Burn the boats ! burn the fleet ! ” The hoarse cry, 
taken up by the whole Hall, pulsed far into the night, 
and the tumult was heard by Gillespie. 

“ Gentlemen” — Barnacles held up his hand — “ is that 
your decision ? ” 

“ Ay ! ay ! ” came the answering roar. 

“ Let the outer door be locked,” rang out the voice 
of Barnacles. The sound of a grating key was heard. 

“ Now, men, this is a serious thing. If any man 
objects to this course let him stand up.” 

Old Sandy shuffled with his feet, half stood up, and 
sank down again on his seat. 

“ I must ask you now to swear an oath by Almighty 
God that no man here will divulge what has transpired, 
or give away the names of those who volunteer for the 
work. Remember that the crime of incendiarism is 
heavily punished by the law.” 

“ To hell wi’ the law ; it’ll no’ feed us ! ” a voice shouted. 

“ Very well then, every one present hold up his right 
hand and swear.” A sea of fierce malignant faces was 
z 


338 


GILLESPIE 


turned up to Barnacles as he solemnly held up his right 
hand and said, “ I swear by Almighty God.” 

The next moment a multitude of hands was in the air, 
and “ I swear by Almighty Goad ” rang deep and low 
through the Hall. The terrible curse of a whole com- 
munity was called down on the head of Gillespie Strang, 
who at that moment was nursing a gun. 

Barnacles called for volunteers. With fierce oaths 
every man offered. Six were chosen. Queebec clamoured 
to be one, but was rejected. Red Duncan was appointed 
leader. 

“ Let every man go home, and let no one move a 
step to-morrow night to save the fleet. ‘ Sow the wind 
and reap the whirlwind, 5 ” said Barnacles solemnly, and 
descended from the platform. The scrunch of a key 
was heard unlocking the outer door. Some of the men 
passed out with frightened faces ; some were elated ; most 
had a hard, brooding look. Not a word was spoken 
till they had crowded through the ante-room and broke 
up in Harbour Street into knots and groups. In twenty 
minutes the street was empty, and the mourning of the 
sea arose in the dark along the Harbour wall. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


The next evening a strong gale of wind and rain blew 
the Butler down Harbour Street into Brodie’s, where he 
found the Fishery Officer, a clean-limbed, alert man of 
some thirty years, with a sallow face and humorous 
twinkling eyes, who announced that he had had a telegram 
from Ardmarkie with the intelligence that the fleet there 
had opened the spring fishing season with a heavy fishing. 
It was time the Brieston men were getting ready. The 
Butler flared up. 

“ What are they to get ready for, with Gillespie statin’ 
like a hoodie craw on the riggin’ of every boat ? May the 
Lord look sideways on him.” 

Gillespie found a partisan in the Fishery Officer, who 
said that Gillespie would make the fortune of the fleet 
with his steamer ready to buy their fish. No one could 
provision the fleet like him, or hold such a quantity of 
empty stock ready for emergencies. Why were the lazy 
Brieston men not preparing their boats ? — By the irony 
of circumstance the Brieston men were at that very 
moment, under cloud of night, lifting the anchors of the 
skiffs and lashing them together, and soaking their fore- 
castles with paraffin supplied by Lonend — “ Before they 
get out the Ardmarkie men will have fished hundreds of 
pounds’ worth. There’s a big eye moving up the Channel.” 

It took all Brodie’s blustering tact to prevent a quarrel, 
and it was with a valedictory oath of camaraderie that 
he shut his front door upon them at ten o’clock. The 

339 


340 


GILLESPIE 


Fishery Officer waspishly fell into step with the Butler 
and said : “ We’ve drunk together.” 

“ That’s true,” hiccoughed the Butler ; “ by the heave 
of your legs.” 

“ We’ve told yarns together.” 

“ You’re never done, man — big ones.” 

“ We’ve sang songs together.” 

“ I’ve never heard ye, ye hoodie.” 

“ Give me time ; give me time, Butler ; I’m gettin’ it 
out now for what ye said to me in Brodie’s. Sang songs, 
ay; but we haven’t had a fight yet.” 

“ Man,” said the Butler blithely, “ many’s a spar I’ve 
had wi’ the Laird wi’ the gloves. Give me the wall for 
my back, an’ I’ll tap claret.” 

Two shops in Harbour Street just at the point where 
they stood formed an acute angle. One was large, next 
indeed in importance to Gillespie’s; the other a small 
greengrocer’s, which had the appearance of leaning 
under and being crushed by the larger. Into this angle 
the Butler walked, and leaning against both walls, was 
dimly aware that the Fishery Officer was making certain 
strange gyratory movements in his vicinity. 

“ Hach,” ejaculated the Butler peevishly, shot out 
his powerful hand, and caught his opponent on the 
shoulder. In this fashion they fell to, fell, and fell 
asleep. Some two hours later Campbell of Skye fell over 
a leg in the dark. Always eager for stripes, he flashed 
his bull’s eye on the corner, and was in the article of 
arresting a house-breaker, when he glimpsed the Butler 
seated in the angle of the wall, blinking, with folded 
arms like an Indian god. The Fishery Officer had 
eloped with his respectability some time before, when 
the Butler, wandering through an indecent ballad, had 
awakened him. The Butler still sang. 

“ Wha-at iss this noise you are mekin’ ? ” 


GILLESPIE 


341 


“ Noise ! ” said the Butler; ££ I’m singing.” 

“ Maybe you iss ; but move on at wance, or you’ll be 
singin’ in the chyle.” 

This was exactly the Butler’s inability. An idea took 
the genial aristocrat that he would use the policeman 
as a valet. 

“ You don’t know me, you surely don’t know me, 
constable, or you wouldn’t speak in that scurrilous 
fashion.” He reclined on his right elbow. ££ You haven’t 
been long enough in Brieston to hear of my trouble.” 

<£ Your trubble iss the dram ; I’m tellin’ you that, by 
Chove ! ” 

££ You afflict me, sir; you afflict me. What rascals do 
you move among to hear such low talk ? ” 

££ Rascals ! move on at wance, or I’ll hev’ to took ye 
to the chyle.” 

££ I tell you I won’t move on. I defy you, sir, to lay 
your hand on me till I have explained to you my trouble. 
Extinguish your light. It is in my eyes.” There was a 
click, followed by sudden darkness. 

££ Allow me, sir, to ask you to be seated by me.” 

££ My backside on the wet ; no fears.” 

££ As you will ; as you will. Observe then, constable, 
this is not the dram ; it is a floating kidney. Have you 
ever heard of a floating kidney ? ” 

“ No, nor a flottin’ puddin’. Chust you reise an’ move 
on smert.” 

££ I tell you I’m indisposed. Lay your hand on me at 
your peril.” The Butler groaned and rubbed the small 
of his back. ££ Oh, constable ! constable ! it’s here. 
If I could just get this kidney of mine anchored. It’s 
an awful thing for a man to have a kidney sailing up 
and down inside him, like a yacht at a regatta.” He 
groaned deeply : ££ Sometimes I feel it in the small of my 
back ; the next minute — Oh ! Oh ! ! Oh ! ! ! — it’s tacking 


342 


GILLESPIE 


away up my spine.” His head fell on his arm. Campbell 
of Skye bent down an anxious face. 

“ Dhia ! ” he said, “ iss this no’ the state you’re in; 
will I go for the doctor? ” 

44 Maclean knows; Maclean knows,” the inert mass 
moaned. 44 There’s nothing for it when it seizes me but 
to lie down if I can’t get assistance. Big McCallum used 
to give me an arm home; and you talk of the jail. Do 
you want to drive me into an early grave, sir ? ” 

Campbell’s fat, red face was stupid with mystification 
and his eyes alarmed. 44 Since aal my days I neffer h’ard 
of a floatin’ kidney through Skye.” 

44 It’s a new trouble, constable, a new trouble discovered 
by a German professor. Give me your hand now, officer ; 
it’s easier a little.” 

Campbell lifted him gently by the oxter, the Butler 
leaning heavily and stertorously upon the Law, and at 
every stagger groaning. 

44 It’s pricking me, constable ; pricking like a knife ; 
my days are numbered.” 

44 Dhia ! if I wass in your boots I wad be gettin’ some 
pooders from the doctor.” 

44 Powders, sir, powders ; I’ve had some to-night 
already; speaking powders they’re called. Easy now 
at the brae.” And the Butler informed Campbell of the 
shining qualities of his predecessor McCallum, on the 
brae and on the stair, which they were approaching. 
44 He used to help me up and knock at the door. He’s 
promoted since to Islay.” The tone hinted that the 
promotion came from the Butler. Campbell, determined 
that in no wise would he come short of the serviceableness 
of his predecessor, panted up the stair with his ponderous 
burden and knocked at the door. A red-haired, small, 
white-faced woman opened it. She looked sleepy and 
fatigued. 


GILLESPIE 


343 


“ Here’s the Butler,” said Campbell. 

She put out a hand and laid hold of her husband, a 
sad look creeping into her eyes. 

“ Ay ! ay ! ” she said wearily ; “ it’s always ‘ Here’s the 
Butler.’ ” She accepted him from the policeman as a 
parcel, and closed the door. 

“ This iss no’ the chob for me at aal, at aal,” muttered 
Campbell of Skye, as he descended the stair ; “ tekin’ home 
floatin’ kidneys. The muschief iss in this toon.” 

When he gained the mouth of the close he saw that 
mischief indeed was in the town. Harbour Street shone 
in a pale glow, and Campbell ran down the brae. As he 
came into the Square a terrible sight met his gaze and 
petrified him. The fishing-fleet was on fire. He heard 
the crackling and splintering of wood, and the roar of 
wind- tormented flame. 

“ Dhia ! Dhia ! this is the Day of Chudgement,” he 
muttered, and ran across the Square, up the close and 
the stair, and was thundering with his boots and hands 
on Gillespie’s door. 

“ Who’s there ? ” came a sharp voice. 

“ Reise ! reise ! the boats iss on fire ! ” 

He continued hammering on the door till Gillespie had 
opened it. 

“ What’s that ye’re say in ? ” 

“ I’m to llin ’ you; I’m tellin’ you,” he panted; “ hell’s 
lowsed on the boats ! ” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


A cool philosophy will recognise the necessity and 
worth of such an upheaval as overtook Brieston, for there 
can be no redemption without blood. War has its 
tremendous sanity, being a moral earthquake in humanity. 
Because the primitive vices of violence, cruelty, and 
revenge are always near the surface, men are drawn into 
the vortex, and do things in the heart of a mob which 
they bitterly repent of afterwards. So we find two of 
these men who had volunteered to burn the fleet afraid 
to make the venture. They had harnessed the boats 
together; had soaked here and there a forecastle with 
paraffin, and now stood waiting in the lee of the “ Shipping 
Box ” for the parish church bell to ring the midnight hour. 
It was cold, dark, and stormy. 

“ Holy sailor, what a night ! ” said a subdued voice. 

“ Noo’s the time,” urged Red Duncan; “the breeze 
’ill tek’ off wi’ the ebb.” 

A crescent moon was sheering through the clouds like 
a silvery fin slicing a phosphorescent sea. Dark-ribbed 
waves slouched round the Quay head. A hurried step 
was heard coming down Harbour Street beneath the 
police station dike. 

“ Scatter, boys,” whispered Red Duncan. The men 
vanished like shadows round the “ Shipping Box ” and 
down the Quay. So strong is the sense of property 
that the most righteous aggression upon it is not effected 
without qualms. 


344 


GILLESPIE 


345 


Red Duncan alone stood his ground, desirous to know 
who the intruder was. A squat, bulky form came 
round the corner of the “ Shipping Box.” It was Lonend. 
Immediately his eyes fell on Red Duncan he asked : 

“ Where’s the rest o’ the men ? ” 

Red Duncan answered with a low whistle, and five 
shadowy forms crept back to the lee of the “ Shipping Box.” 
For the past hour Lonend had been watching from his 
farm door, and becoming impatient had set out to 
discover the cause of the delay. On the way he had 
nailed a certain paper on to the door of Gillespie’s shop. 
One of the men who were now gathered round him 
muttered that it was an ugly job. It was all very well 
for Lonend to talk of burning boats. He was a farmer. 
The spring season was upon them. Where would they 
get boats for their work ? And these boats ! Lonend 
could not understand. They were old and precious. 
Their fathers had lived in them; they were haunted 
with memories. New and more daring sails might arise 
on the Loch ; but never, never would they be such wings 
of beauty as those they knew. Every plank, every nail, 
every knot in the wood was familiar to them. To burn 
this heritage of associations was to commit sacrilege. 
They might as well fire the church or their own homes. 

Lonend, having listened in silence, began to speak in 
a tone of contempt. Why did they not offer their 
objections at the meeting, and leave better men to the 
job ? His voice, rising and falling in the dark, stung 
with sarcasm. 

“ Your boats ! they’re your boats no longer : ye’ll 
only be galley-slaves in them.” 

“ Maybe we’ll mand to buy them back frae the big 
fella’ wi’ good times.” 

Lonend exploded in hard laughter. “ I’ll no’ believe 
it while there’s one bone o’ me above the other. The 


346 


GILLESPIE 


devil maybe ’ill win back to heaven frae hell ; but ye’ll 
never buy the boats back. Gillespie’s got the most o’ 
ye pledge an’ bond, an’ noo ye’ve got him in your hand 
oot there. Are ye waens or not, by Goad ? Hae ye 
forgotten the black easterly win’, an’ the hunger, an’ 
Gillespie wi’ his wee papers wi’ the stamp, an’ McAskill 
blinkin’ at his side ? Hae ye forgotten the wolf, that 
ye’re anxious to be his slaves ? Gie me the torch.” He 
plucked it from Red Duncan’s hands, and appeared to 
swell with rage. His ruthless savagery beat upon them 
like blows. This was such a torch as they had used 
when they had got herring, and lit to attract the notice 
of the buyers. They were used to light it in happy times. 
The blessing of cot and hearth and Heaven was upon 
these torches; they were the light of the seas; the wells 
by which men lay ; the stars of hope and home. To use 
one of them now to provoke hell — it was like giving their 
children poisoned bread. 

“ We canna ! we canna burn oor boats.” 

“ Your boats ! your boats ! ” He shook the blackened 
torch in their faces ; “ you’ll never sail them again as 
free men. What would the old Brieston men have said 
to you ? They’re Gillespie’s boats, an’ he’ll wring oot 
your he’rt’s blood in them.” 

“ It’s the Goad Almighty’s truth,” rapped out Red 
Duncan ; “ it’s me, boys, that kens Gillespie ; he’ll strangle 
ye lik’ a wee bird. They’re no’ oor boats any longer. 
He stole the Bella frae me in the deid o’ night in his 
back shop, an’ noo in the deid o’ night I’ll tek’ her frae 
him ; ” his voice shook with passion. 

“ Will ye hand them ower to the beast Gillespie to 
mak’ his stable in ? ” urged Lonend. 

“ No ! by the Lord ! I’m wi’ ye, Lonen’,” Red Duncan 
rapped out. 

“ Awa’ hame the rest o’ ye ; awa’ hame to your wife an’ 


GILLESPIE 


347 


waens, an’ be Gillespie’s slaves for ever. Burn them, men, 
burn them ; better to burn them than be trampled on 
like dung.” 

The men still hesitated in sullen mood. 

“ Hame wi’ ye, ye sheep. That’ll no save the boats. 
Duncan an’ me’s for the crossing — awa’ hame.” He 
advanced on them as if to crowd them back. 

“ Who’s goin’ home ? ” a voice growled; “ it’s no’ me.” 
The fellow’s temper was roused and raw. 

“ Be off, the rest o’ ye, an’ tell the weemin ye were 
frightened. They’re watching roond the toon behind 
their windows. Ye’ll be namely in Brieston the mom. 
Off wi’ ye ! I’ll gang an’ get men, no’ a wheen o’ Gillespie’s 
weemin’.” 

“ Shut your mouth, by Goad, or I’ll choke ye ! ” It 
was the voice of Big Finla’. “ Are ye wantin’ the hale 
toon aboot oor ears ? ” 

“ The hale toon ” — Lonend’s words fell like a thong on 
a raw wound — “ the hale toon ’ill ca’ ye cowards if ye 
dinna come. They’re waitin’ to see the bleeze ” — his 
voice rose above the noise of wind and sea — “ waitin’ at 
the windas to see Gillespie’s bonfire.” His hard laugh 
exploded again as he stepped out from the lee of the 
“ Shipping Box ” on to the Quay, and faced the houses 
curving round Harbour Street as if they were populous 
with fiery eyes — “ to see Gillespie’s bonfire.” His mock- 
ing laughter burst out again — “ Gillespie’s cornin’ o’ age 
the nicht.” Big Finla’ pushed roughly past Lonend, 
descended the steps at the head of the Quay, stepped 
aboard the punt and lifted an oar. 

“ Are ye cornin’, boys ? ” 

The oar splashed in the water. There was a sound 
as of frenzy in the noise — sudden, startling, going home 
like a trumpet-call to the hearts of those men. The 
magic sound of the oar in their native element sent fire 


348 


GILLESPIE 


through their veins. It seemed an eternity since they 
had heard this music. For months they had had nothing 
to do but stand on the Quay head and watch the seas 
lift and break through the scurry of the rain. 

“ Put the oars on her, boys, to hell oot o’ this ! ” rang 
out Red Duncan’s voice. They trooped down the slippery 
steps and seized the oars. They were like men possessed ; 
agonised with desire to bury the oar deep in the brine, 
and hear the slush of the water about the blade. There 
was a human sound in it. In wetting the parched oars 
they were slaking their long thirst for the deep. The 
wind came in sword-thrusts upon the punt as she spun 
round the Quay head. Lonend sat in the stern nursing 
the torch to his breast, and shielding it from the breaking 
seas. They plunged the blades deep into the sea, and 
set their teeth at every stroke. Their lust of battling 
with the storm made the punt rock and sheer through the 
waves. The water meeting the blade of the oar was too 
yielding, and spun away like smoke. They wished for 
something solid as iron to wrestle with. The fires of 
conflict consumed them. They had been robbed for 
long, weary months of their heritage, and now they were 
returned from an exile of hunger and blood, of iron, heat, 
and plague. They lashed the sea with the oars; no 
longer bound upon a mission of revenge, but ravenously 
satiating their hunger of the deep. Would that the 
storm were louder, the rollers deeper, to try them to the 
very citadel of their strength. The bow of the punt 
was forced under the head-seas. They were drenched. 
The wind sang riotously past; the sea chanted a battle- 
cry. They were freed men out in the wide night beneath 
the heavens in a challenging gale, and freed men they 
would remain. A grim silence sank upon the tossing 
boat. Their fear had evaporated. They would have 
rowed into the heart of a cyclone. They felt their strength 


GILLESPIE 


349 


gigantic. The rowlocks in the bow oar snapped, and a 
man tumbled backwards over the beam. His oar was 
snatched away on a grey-backed comber. 44 My oar’s 
gone to hell, boys ; pull away.” 

In that moment they shot nose first into a skiff. The 
man at the bow rose and clutched at her gunwale. 

Lonend leapt aboard crying, 44 My turn now.” He 
crawled forward, swung himself down by the forward 
beam and disappeared. A light glimmered in the fore- 
castle, wavered a moment and went out. It was followed 
by a strong flame. The torch was lit. Lonend heard a 
loud cry from Red Duncan. 44 It’s — it’s my faither’s 
boat; the auld Flora , black wi’ age.” 

A tongue of flame peered out of the fo’c’sle door as 
if spying upon the night, licked the dark with yellow 
tongue, and darted in again. Lonend in the forecastle 
saw the dark stain of the paraffin across the lower bunk — 
the bunk where many righteous men now dead had slept 
the sleep of the weary in wet clothes. He applied the 
torch. The flame ran along the oil with greedy swiftness. 
There was a crackling of wood. 

44 One for you, Calum Galbraith,” he muttered; 44 that 
score is cleaned.” He flung open the trap-door in the 
roof. The flame began to roar, and swooped upwards 
in a wavering wall. Lonend retreated to the punt. 
Thick smoke mingled with lances of fire poured out of 
the trap -door. The old Flora was ablaze. Red Duncan 
was sitting on the middle beam, an oar astraddle across 
his knee. In the lurid glare he saw the dark, determined 
face of Lonend, and his greenish cat eyes ablaze with 
lust of carnage. 

4 4 Go to hell, you devil, after the auld boat ! ” Red 
Duncan screamed, swinging aloft the oar. The punt 
wobbled with the jerk as he rose, and sent Lonend 
staggering backwards. The oar crashed down on the 


350 


GILLESPIE 


gunwale of the skiff and splintered. Red Duncan 
collapsed on the beam and turning his back on the 
blazing boat began to sob. Presently he leapt to his 
feet. 

“ Good-bye, the auld Flora,” he cried ; “ ye’ll hae com- 
pany the nicht the wy ye go.” He savagely shoved the 
punt off. The bow slewed sharply round with the wind, 
and plunged into another skiff. 

“ Gie me the torch ! ” Red Duncan roared; ‘ ‘ the auld 
Flora's gone; an’ my mither’s furniture’s gone in the 
Back Street bleeze; and my wife’s airm. I’ll settle 
my debt wi’ Gillespa’ Strang this night, by Goad ! ” 

He leapt aboard, and flung himself at the forecastle 
door. 

“ Noo ye are men ! ” cried Lonend. “ Gillespie ’ill soon 
smell the fire. It’ll burn his banknotes, an’ his wee 
papers wi’ the stamps. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” Lonend’s wild 
sardonic laughter mingled with the crackling of wood. 

Fire broke out in the forecastle. Big Finla’ leapt 
aboard — “ I’ll no’ be behind-hand.” He picked up the 
torch and jumped into the third boat, his figure gigantic 
in the light. The floor of this forecastle was soaked 
with paraffin. He dropped on his knees as if about to 
pray. A flame wriggled and ran along the wood. He 
backed out into the open, slid along the scuttle door on 
the roof and “ Shove off ! ” he cried ; “ the work’s done.’’ 

“ Where’s the torch ? ” demanded the insatiable Lonend. 

“ Helpin’ the bleeze.” 

They pushed off the punt, and unshipped the remaining 
two oars. With wind and tide abaft she tore through 
the glowing water, the deepening roar of the fire behind 
them ; and the sea ahead lit. Lonend plunged his hands 
into the salt water. They were badly burned. His eyes 
were fixed astern, where boat after boat appeared to rush 
up from a dark w r ell into a scarlet heart. Lonend got a 


GILLESPIE 351 

glimpse of Harbour Street glooming and glancing in the 
dissipating darkness. 

“ Beach her ! ” he cried ; “ beach her at once. Brieston 
will be as bright as day in five minutes.” 

Another glance curdled his blood. Conspiracy can 
never perfect its details. These men had overlooked 
the fact that some of the boats rode not to chains, but 
to ropes attached to their anchors. One of these ropes 
had been burned through; and a furnace was drifting 
through the Harbour. The property of the innocent 
would suffer. In the gale that was blowing nothing 
could be done to save the shipping of Brieston from a 
holocaust. 

“ The sooner we’re ashore an’ hame the better.” 

“ Ay, Lonen’,” answered Red Duncan, who was tugging 
at an oar ; “ ye’re in as big a hurry to rin awa’ as ye 
were to hurry to the ploy.” 

In that moment the bow of the punt grated on the 
beach. Lonend splashed ashore and set to running up 
the beach. The small patter of his feet was like an 
animal’s. In that moment it had most vividly occurred 
to him that if Gillespie by any chance were awakened 
by the glare or roused by any one, he would instantly 
suspect the hand of Lonend in the destruction of his 
fleet. “ It’ll just be like the soor deevil to whup off to 
Lonen’.” Panting stertorously Lonend conceived the 
awkwardness of such a position. He would have diffi- 
culty in accounting for his absence from home. He 
reached Lonend, not by passing through Harbour Street, 
but round the back of the town, and was relieved to find 
Campion fully dressed, standing at the gable end smoking 
as he watched the superb spectacle in the Harbour below. 

“ If the Biblical account is taken literally, Mr. Lonend, 
this is precisely how the angels above view the other 
place below.” 


352 


GILLESPIE 


In these words Lonend was taught his first great 
lesson in tact. He waited, however, for some allusion 
to his nocturnal wanderings. Instead this strange youth 
added — “ I suppose the prince of devils in that lake of 
fire below there is Mr. Gillespie Strang. Wonder how he 
feels.” 

At that precise moment Gillespie had stopped dead in 
his trot at the foot of the street, which ran from the end 
of the Back Street into Harbour Street, where his eye 
had caught a solitary figure. He hurried across to 
beseech help, and looked into the grave eyes of Mrs. 
Galbraith. 

“Marget!” he cried; and then suspiciously — “What 
are ye doin’ here ? ” 

“ I came out to see your garden of red roses, and 
warm my hands at your fire. 

His lower lip was bleeding. “ God peety me ! I hae 
fower thoosan’ poun’ on fire oot there,” and then ran on. 

The bitter anguish of his voice touched the woman’s 
heart. She looked after him with pitying eyes. 

“ God pity us indeed,” she thought; “ we’ve both our 
price to pay for this night’s work,” and she turned home 
with drooping head, her heart filled with loathing as she 
thought of Lonend. 

Harbour Street was empty, save for the trotting 
figure of Gillespie. It was a sinister solitude. Looking 
up at the windows flaring along the sea-front he saw 
them lined with faces as if steeped in blood. He stood 
between those faces and the flames, a man friendless, 
deserted, pitiable as a solitary figure in a vast empty 
city. Behind him he felt a heat which made him grow 
cold with horror, in front of him he sensed an inimical 
living wall. The horror behind pricked him to cast 
supplicating glances upwards. 

“Will no one come an’ gie me a hand to save the boats ? ” 


GILLESPIE 


353 


The eyes of those faces were withdrawn from the 
Harbour and gazed down on him ; but no one answered. 
Some of the eyes were cold ; some malicious ; some raining 
down hatred; others smiling. The smiling eyes made 
him shiver. They taught him to what a depth he had 
sunk in the estimation of the people. He passed along 
with his back to the sea, his face upturned to the win- 
dows, like a beggar beseeching alms, till he recognised 
he was running a gauntlet of eyes. There was something 
brutal, malevolent, fiendish in the spectacle of Gillespie 
in that lurid amphitheatre. Another man would have 
cried on the hills to cover him. Gillespie began walking 
between the houses and the breast-wall in a semicircle, 
like a mesmerised animal, and staggered as if drunk. A 
window was flung up ; a woman’s voice screamed — “ Go 
an’ save the boats; they’re yours. Ye stealt them frae 
honest men. Away ! away ! ye thief. Thon’s hell ye’ve 
set in a lowe. It’s burnin’ for ye oot yonder.” 

Gillespie did not hear her. He was walking now in a 
circle. His face looked demented. Suddenly he came 
to a halt as if baffled, his protruding eyes on the boats 
burning fiercely to the water’s edge. He put up his 
hands to his throat, and fell prone on the street, upon 
the field of Armageddon. 


CHAPTER XXX 


A dense fire-smell was drifting across the town. The 
hills in the north-west were wrapped in thick smoke. The 
Harbour had the appearance of blazing oil. It seemed 
as if the wind blew in sheets of flame, over which a 
multitude of sparks danced grotesquely. The walls of 
the houses along the Quay were now hot. Fortunately the 
wind was south and by west blowing out of the Harbour. 
A new terror was added to the sublime panorama of fire. 
Boats whose anchor ropes were burnt were adrift and 
sagged, pillars of flame down the Harbour. Right in 
their track ran out the long foreland beneath Muirhead 
Farm, clothed to the water’s edge with fir. A blazing 
boat struck inside the point; another came down drun- 
kenly upon her. The damp fir at first refused to take 
fire. Soon it was scorched with the fierce heat, and 
presently the firs on the edge of the water tossed tresses 
of fire to the night. In a short space of time a wall of 
scarlet fire stalked before the wind on the foreland. The 
fir wood spread left and right, and deeply ahead to the 
edge of the Laigh Park beneath Muirhead. It was in 
this direction the fire travelled. In the added glare the 
town was strung around the bay in naked outline, like a 
town built at the foot of the mountains of the moon, 
whose windows were molten gold. There was a blinding 
glare in the sky. The atmosphere was choking with a 
burning smell. It was at this point, when the fleet was 
ablaze and the shepherds and moorsmen beyond Beinn an 
Oir were disturbed by the glow in the heavens, that Gillespie 

354 


GILLESPIE 


355 


fell in Harbour Street as he stood watching a splendid 
ladder of flame in the heart of the fleet. It had a rhythmic 
movement which fascinated the eye. Its flat, jagged 
head oscillated backwards and forwards slowly, like the 
head of a snake. This was the main sheet of flame, 
whose splendour and terror mesmerised. It took a 
hundred fantastic shapes — now like the chain mail of 
warriors tearing at each other with bloody hands in a 
cauldron ; now like witches with streaming hair of flame ; 
like ghosts in winding-sheets of Tophet; and again like 
a wall of beaten gold. In greater gusts of the wind the 
wall swayed, bellied, and broke, and great golden balloons 
hovered in the air. At the foot of this wall vicious 
tongues leapt out everywhere, seized the cordage, writhed 
about the masts, licking everything in their path ; united 
and fanned upwards, they swooped across the golden 
wall as if fighting for life. The anchor chains were red 
hot; spars crackled like musketry and hissed in the sea. 
Stars seemed falling from heaven. The wall of flame 
swayed and bent, and fell across the boats like gigantic 
flowers. The Harbour was a sea of fire ; the tide like blood. 
The wind veered to the north-west as the fire lapped up 
the anchor rope of one of its last victims. She drifted 
before the wind — a core of flame — up the Harbour. Burning 
fiercely she careened; her forefoot rose, a red tortured 
wound, and splitting with a roar she settled down by the 
stern with a loud hissing noise. A minor darkness fell 
across the house-fronts when she vanished. The appalling 
roar of fire surmounted the drone of the waves and 
terrified Brieston. The heat in Harbour Street became 
intense with the change of wind ; and powdered with 
ashes, was hot as from the ovens of the Cyclops. Clouds 
of grey smoke rolled in upon the town. The hills surged 
up out of the golden lake, alone immune beneath a bluish 
mist. A strong perfume exuded from the pines, as if they 


356 


GILLESPIE 


were giving up their life in the parched atmosphere. Some 
titanic maleficent power was abroad. This was no longer 
vengeance upon Gillespie but supernatural terror. The 
red foam of hell was being brewed upon the tortured face 
of the night. 

With the north-west wind came the rain, falling in 
fiery spears. It lashed upon Gillespie, who opened his 
eyes and felt as if a mountain lay upon his breast. He 
began to pant and gasp for air, and rolling on his side 
saw the house-fronts pallid, naked, and solemn in the broad 
glare. A flight of screaming birds drove over his head. 
The maddened beating and rush of their wings was 
terrifying. Tongues of flame appeared to him to be 
playing about the windows ; and his eyeballs burned at 
the sight. He thought Brieston was on fire beneath a 
volcanic cloud of smoke. He staggered to his feet and 
faced the Square. Scarlet rain was falling across the rig- 
ging of his house. This made the night more terrible than 
it was from all the mad beating of wings, the screaming 
of sea-fowl, the roar of fire, the crackling of wood, and 
the hissing in the sea like steam. His tall house was 
threatened and his shop. Gillespie threw up his head, 
and ran at the top of his speed towards his home. With 
a sob of relief he found he had been the victim of an 
hallucination, and quaked with nerves unstrung at this 
strange experience. Gillespie for the first time in his 
life had encountered something beyond the realm of the 
material. He went into the house and searched for 
whisky. Topsail Janet and his wife were cowering in 
the front parlour. At sight of his face his wife rose, 
her own face like ashes, her eyes suddenly enlarged with 
terror, her breadth coming in short, quick pants. 

“ Whusky ! ” he gasped. His knees were bowed, his 
shoulders hunched forward. Topsail jerked round her 
head, her mouth wide open, upon her mistress, and slowly 


GILLESPIE 


357 


rose and shuffled out of the room. She descended the 
stair, trailed along the passage to the washing-house, 
and unearthed a half-mutchkin bottle quarter full, where 
it was concealed among the house coal in the washing- 
house. She hurried back with it to Gillespie. As he 
drank dawn broke sullenly over a rainy sea. The boats 
were burned. The rain had extinguished the last of the 
flames. The planting below Muirhead was smouldering, 
and a sour smoke oozing upwards. The rocks were 
blackened like cold lava; the trees stretched out bare 
black boughs. The wood had a crucified look. Harried 
ribs and charred spars were floating over the Harbour 
seeking for a sanctuary or a grave. A saturnine silence 
lay upon the smoke-blackened town. Dead gulls lay on 
the shore street, their plumage covered with fine soot, 
their beaks yellowed with smoke. The wind mourned 
in the skeletons of the boats. 

Gillespie stood looking at the charred embers bobbing 
on the waves with ironic jerk. Benighted, he was sinking 
in a sea of profound misery. He could not understand 
why he had been visited with wrath. He lived over his 
life again in that searching half-hour. He did not sum- 
mon it ; it appeared as a picture before his eyes, standing 
against the wall of this strange supernatural visitation 
which had afflicted him. He saw above the wall a line 
of menacing, silent faces, and hedged around it a reinless 
fire. Suddenly his life shrunk. In the face of those 
mighty forces it became pinched, acerb, ill-directed; 
puny in the face of a power beyond his control, a vast 
demoniac force which he had despised. His soul was 
frizzled as by a baleful cometary rush through it. He 
stood gazing at his blackened altar, like the priests of 
Baal when the controversy was summarily finished on 
Carmel by the fire of heaven licking up their obscene 
sacrifices. 


358 


GILLESPIE 


But Gillespie in that hour had no qualms about Divine 
judgment. He had been hemmed in with fire and hatred, 
and in physical weakness had experienced an hallucina- 
tion. He laid his account to the mob. The people he 
had considered a carcass set down for his prey ; and lo ! 
the carcass had developed a brain and an eye of raging 
malice. He had no sense of awe in his ostracism. His 
was not a lofty sorrow. He had made no daring ag- 
gression upon Fate, had woven no splendid purple pall 
over the dead body of an exalted hope. The corpse of 
avarice was swathed in rags. The little breasts of his 
mate, greed, could never have become pregnant with 
great life. The avaricious are held in some measure of 
esteem so long as they are not ruthless ; for the most 
part of humanity is engaged in laying up goods ; but 
there is a stronger sense in humanity than that of pos- 
session — the sense of justice. Gillespie was punished 
because he had derided the permanent things of life, 
which humanity have learned to prize through centuries 
of the discipline of immitigable sorrow, vicissitude, and 
blood. To deride those permanent things is to flout 
the hope and ideals which in the breast of mankind 
have borne privation, suffering, and death with fortitude 
and patience. For innocence, youth, laughter, friendship, 
natural ties, and even death Gillespie had had neither 
bowels of sympathy nor compassion. He had been self- 
centred in rearing his house of life and filling it with his 
own peculiar idols. The precious things of man’s soul 
outraged took their inevitable revenge. Gillespie had 
not denied the deity; he had committed the sin of the 
fallen angels ; and before his assault upon what is eternal 
in the breast of humanity, he had encountered the grim 
judicial award gained by those who would usurp the 
function and authority of God. The penalty visited him 
unerringly, and Gillespie wizened in the slow wrath of 


GILLESPIE 


359 


God. The menacing dictum of the ancient Hebrew 
prophets that Jehovah is a just paymaster was fulfilled 
upon his head. 

The mob had struck him a crushing blow. He admitted 
so much as he saw the solans flying northward across the 
morning moon. He watched their flight pondering. 
Not for months had they visited the Loch. The herring 
“ eye ” was surely moving. His mouth closed in a grim 
line. 

“ They’ll come on their knees to me yet,” he said 
aloud ; “ best face to Greenock noo. I’ll show them the 
stuff that’s in Gillespa’ Strang.” He determined to go 
down and open the shop. 

Fine ashes drifted in the Square. The whole town 
after the rain glistened, slate and window. 

Gillespie had been like an open oyster, fancying he had 
been swallowing the ocean, whereas he was but a fragile 
thing in the shadow of iron rocks, liable to battering and 
disaster from the unquiet waves of his creek, which are 
but the hoarse lips of the titanic deep. The oyster, 
nevertheless, will not believe otherwise than that the 
whole ocean is its world. So a look of decision came 
into his haggard face, making rigid the lines about his 
mouth as he took the shop keys from his jacket pocket. 
There was something napoleonic in his attitude. He 
imagined he had acquired wisdom from calamity, whereas 
he had only learned a deeper cunning. Disaster was 
schooling him in a prudence of which he had more than 
sufficient already. It was not teaching him contrition 
or righteousness. With tightened mouth he began to 
order his life anew for another bout with Fate. Nothing 
worse could occur to him, he thought. He did not dream 
that a more grievous thing than the loss of a fleet could 
be laid up in the treasury of Heaven’s wrath. He was 
ignorant of the doom which had haunted his mother’s 


360 


GILLESPIE 


life with dread and horror. He set his face as he de- 
scended the stair to retrieve his fortune. He would be 
more wary, more deft, a deeper watcher of occasions, a 
spy upon this land of giants, as he plucked the grapes. 
With the most vigilant scrupulousness he would trim his 
sails, and pull his claws further within their sheath to 
pad among men more noiselessly. Men, he saw, cannot 
be mocked without limit; but they can be cajoled. 
The bitterness of these late months had caused him to 
overreach himself. The rabble was a vast capricious 
engine which can sweat for you or ravin upon you. He 
would exercise a more watchful eye upon the fly-wheel 
in future. It must not break loose again in chaos. He 
would cunningly guide it in the groove of service. 

He was about to insert the large polished steel key 
in the hole of the front door of the shop when his eye 
fell upon a placard nailed to the door. The writing was 
in large letters of ink. A dim recollection of having seen 
this placard before stirred in the chambers of memory. 
Ah ! he remembered. It was on the door of Galbraith’s 
farm at Muirhead. Slowly he read the missive, and as he 
read a sudden trembling seized him. He had a feeling 
in that moment of being dogged by unseen, implacable 
vindictiveness. 


THIS HOUSE IS DEAD. 

IT HAS BEEN MURDERED. 

IT IS BURIED IN THE GRAVE OF A WOMAN’S 
HEART. 

“ BE NOT DECEIVED ; GOD IS NOT MOCKED : FOR WHATSO- 
EVER A MAN SOWETH, THAT SHALL HE ALSO REAP.” 

He smiled sourly. “ Oot o’ your reckonin’ ; oot o’ 
your reckonin’ this time, Marget. There’s nae wumman.” 
He had forgotten that piece of chattels, his wife. “ I’ll 


GILLESPIE 


361 


mak’ short work o’t this time,” he muttered vindictively, 
and tearing the placard off the door, scattered on the 
pavement the fragments on which the drift soot of the 
wrecked fleet fell. He wheeled about, gazing at the 
cold face of Brieston, the fragments of the placard 
beneath his heel. Pale and dry as clay with vigil, 
and haggard with shock, he presented a piteous spectacle 
beneath the overarching solemnity and loneliness of the 
dawn. And the sun shone upon the skeleton of his fleet. 


END OF BOOK II 


BOOK III 


CHAPTER I 

The burn divides Brieston, in respect of its armies — 
the Barracks Boys north and west of the burn; the 
Quay Boys south and east. 

The legions drilled, one at the old Castle behind the 
Quay, the other at the Barracks. Their swords were 
laths which the luggage steamer brought in bundles for 
Toddle Peter, slater and plasterer, himself a lath of a 
man. 

The Captain of the Quay army had little appearance 
of a warrior, being small, thin-faced, pale, meagre in look, 
long-haired. His eyes were arresting : quick and sharp, 
they burned with internal fires. The spey-wife, whose 
husband, a MacCann from Ardmarkie, had deserted her 
and three children, and who made a living by selling 
cockles gathered in West Loch Brieston to Gillespie, 
observed the boy’s eyes upon her as she counted her 
cockles in the store. 

“ He’s got an eye like a traivellin’ rat,” she said to 
Gillespie, with one of MacCann’s Irish oaths. 

“ A chip o’ the auld block,” Gillespie answered. 

The boy, secretly pleased, from that moment practised 
the battery of his eyes in drilling and in fighting, because 
he had an itch to excel. 

Gillespie was at the back of the store searching for a 
bag to hold the cockles, and the boy heard the cockle-wife 

362 


GILLESPIE 363 

sigh as she straightened her back. She saw compassion 
in his eyes. 

“ Ay ! Tam’s taen up wi’ another wumman in Ard- 
markie, an’ the ault mear’s left to bear the burden.” 
She told him to be good to his mother. Another sorrow 
was added to the boy’s life. He was finding that in the 
world there is much cruelty and heartache, and because 
he could not analyse the causes of things, and his lively 
imagination fed superficially on what he saw, he wasted 
an enormous amount of pity, and was tortured in the 
silence of his breast. Only last week he had suffered in 
another fashion. On his way to school he had been 
cajoled into his father’s slaughter-house. It was a back 
yard littered with empty boxes and straw behind Mac- 
Calman’s Lane where Gillespie housed the country vans. 
Big Jumbo the butcher was standing in the midst of the 
yard lighting a blackened cutty, his hairy arms naked 
and rusty with gore. Having lit his pipe he led out from 
the shed a famished beast, brick-red, with fallen flanks, 
and broken-kneed. Its coat was muddy, its tail worn, 
its horns stumps — “ one of Gillespie’s beasts.” It 
stumbled and stopped, sniffing among the straw, and was 
dragged forward by a rope twisted about its stubby horns. 
Suddenly it cried. It was not a bellow, not a bleat, 
but a half-human cry, as if knowledge of its doom had 
come upon it. It was trailed forward with its fore-knees 
raking the ground. The bovine wail reached the heart 
of the boy, who in that moment recalling what he had 
read in the Bible — “He can send legions of angels” — 
prayed silently for these angels of flame to come and 
blast this devil, who, coolly smoking, was trussing up 
the beast’s feet. It lay on its flanks, its cheek flat on 
the straw, the weight of its head pressing on the stubbed 
horn. The great brown eyes, the boy imagined, were 
looking into his with a liquid sob of fear. They gnawed 


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him in mute appeal ; they were as darkened windows 
out of which gloomed the horror of a great gulf of dark- 
ness. The muddied flank, with the hollow in the side, 
so pitiably shrunken, was heaving and falling with deep 
pants, and the tail whisking feebly, like the hand of a 
little child beating gently as it falls asleep. The boy 
wanted to cry out for mercy; it was his father’s cow, 
let the butcher spare it. But there was a crowd gathered. 
He was afraid of crowds, afraid they would see his 
quivering body. 

“ Any one like to try his hand wi’ the hammer ? ” this 
fiend was saying ; “ a tap is a’ she needs.” 

As the boy turned his eyes away from the terrified 
innocence at his feet, he felt something hard thrust into 
his hand, and looking down saw the blackened polished 
haft of the slender hammer. 

“ Here, young ’un; now’s the time to learn.” 

He felt petrified : the haft dropped weakly from his 
hand. 

“ No muckle o’ Gillespa’ aboot you.” The boy blushed 
at the insolence. The butcher spat in his hands; and 
Eoghan, Gillespie’s son, turned his head away and closed 
his eyes. He heard a dull thud. When he opened them 
again a black moist muzzle pointed skywards, and a 
glaze like thin grey mud was gathering over the brown 
eyes. Something beautiful had been ruthlessly stamped 
out there. A flame of anger surged over him. Big Jumbo 
was bending over the dying beast. Running up to 
him Eoghan swung his leg viciously, and blindly kicking 
the butcher on the ankle, turned and fled through the 
yard. As he gained the entrance gate he felt the air 
suddenly blow icily cold about his cheek, and almost 
instantaneously the hammer-head crashed on the gable 
wall in front of him. With his blood on fire now he swerved, 
and picking up the hammer fled down MacCalman’s Lane, 


GILLESPIE 


365 


past the Bank, and through the Square to the breast- 
wall, where, planting his feet with his back to the sea, 
and whirling the hammer around his head as he had 
seen athletes do at the Regatta Sports, he swung it out 
in a flying curve into the Harbour. A thrill went through 
him at the “ plout ” with which it took the sea, and 
his eyes danced at the jet of foam it flung up. Lust and 
cruelty, rapine and crime, were buried in the cool oblivion 
of the cleansing water, which closed down over the horror 
of pain, darkness, and death which he had seen through 
the fathomless windows of a cow’s eyes. 

At four o’clock he crept home quaking with his bundle 
of books. At the tea- hour Gillespie stood tweaking his 
ear. 

“ Let him be, Gillespie,” pleaded his mother. 

Gillespie frowned on her. “ I’m no’ goin’ to alloo 
such wastery.” 

The boy made no external sign that he was suffering 
even when he thought his father would tear the ear from 
his head. His thin face turned the colour of clay. 

Gillespie suddenly pushed him violently against a chair. 

“ Ye’ll tak’ to the wulks every day the school comes 
out, an’ on Setturdays, till ye mak’ up the price o’ the 
hammer.” 

The boy, devouring his mother’s face with his eyes, 
felt himself strangling for the pain that he saw there. 
He made no answer to his father. 

“ Do ye hear me, Eoghan? ” 

“ Ay.” 

“ Weel, keep guid mind o’t. Lonen’s no deid when 
you’re leevin’ ; gang noo an’ greet behind your mother’s 
bratty.” 

“ I winna greet for anything ye can do,” the boy 
shouted, and bolted from the kitchen. 

He was stubborn enough then, and hardy enough to 


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GILLESPIE 


command an army by a brain fired with the stufi of books. 
Gillespie’s business had expanded so rapidly that Topsail 
Janet’s “ penny dreadfuls ” had been jettisoned into a 
corner. The boy’s grandmother would have trembled 
to have seen him devour those romances, as he lay in 
the warm heather and fashioned phalanxes going out to 
war. Another clog-maker had inhabited a corner of 
one of the stores, and Gillespie, for reasons of thrift, 
ordered a pair of clogs for his son. The steel-shod soles 
rang loudly on the pavements, and the boy conceived a 
cavalry regiment, each member of which, shod in clogs, 
was a mighty charger. The regiment thus armed marched 
on a bleared evening, stepping quietly to encounter the 
Barrack’s troops. Waving a lath above his head the 
boy yelled out “ Charge ! ” and thirty pairs of clogs 
thundered along the pavements of the Square. At the 
clamorous onset the Barracks troops became a panic- 
stricken rout, and a notable victory was achieved. 

The chiefs of his army he then led to the dungeon 
beneath the Castle — a thirty-foot cavern, with a low roof 
arched with black stone, slimed with lime, and hanging 
with stalactites. A dim light was admitted at the low 
end by a thin slit in its two-foot wall. He told them, 
gathered round a candle, of mediaeval prisoners who had 
groaned and suffered the last extremity there, of brownies 
on the braes without, whom his grandmother from the 
“ Ghost ” had chased with a graip when she was digging 
potatoes, and of maleficent beings in the quarry beneath 
them behind the Quay, of whom there was a song : 

“Did ye ever see the devil, 

Wi’ his cock-a-bandy shovel, 

Howkin’ in the Quarry for potatoes ? 

He washed them in a well, 

An J he roasted them in h — l. 11 

Try as he might, he could never find a rhyme for his 


GILLESPIE 


367 


last line. But there was a tale which came from beyond 
Knapdale with his grandmother — he did not know it was 
part of the drift-lore of Europe as far as Hungary — of a 
piper who had entered the dungeon, and by a secret 
passage now lost had crossed beneath the Harbour to the 
caves of Beinn an Oir, where he had been devoured by rats. 
On still nights a plaintive music of bag-pipes arises out of 
the sea. And Nelson ! He sang of that sea-hero thun- 
dering at the gates of bleached Spanish towns, and of 
men naked to the waist and black with powder, fighting 
ankle-deep in the blood of the scuppers. Nor could he 
forget Bruce, the walls of whose Castle rose frowning 
above the dungeon, and remembering the strategy at 
Bannockburn he proposed to use rabbit-traps — of which 
there was an abundance at the “ Ghost ” — and lure the 
Barracks army into this snare. 

Night after night he lay awake planning strategy 
and fighting again ancient battles. Solemnities, obse- 
quies, mourning for the dead seized upon his imagination, 
and he came to fashion the Red Burial. Once he had 
seen a vault opened and shuddered at the yellow rain- 
waters within. It would be no such place for his dead, 
but a mausoleum set in a grove of trees with a clear 
water in the midst. In the Bible he had read of pillars 
of cedar wood, columns of brass and beaten gold. The 
walls would be wrought of marble, adorned with ivory, 
and a blazing stone on the head of the tomb — the Eye of 
Light. 

He prepared his chiefs to carry out the obsequies of the 
only son of a widow — he was influenced here by the 
narrative of the widow of Nain — whom they must carry 
forth by torch-light when in the valley the muskets 
would flash, the trumpets cry among the rocks, and the 
bag-pipes wail in the hills. Trembling, and the eyes in 
the thin face ablaze in the candle-light, he told of the 


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splendour of the gems upon the tomb, and of how with 
swords sloped they would enter upon that funeral march 
from the Quay, while the salvoes rolled in the dark hills 
over their war-chant for the dead. They sang and sang 
again the requiem ; and those appointed to the drums, 
which were large tin cans, laboured at the rehearsal till 
the rites were known. 

The V-shaped flights of birds which pass over the 
town had flown westward in the twilight when the band 
assembled on the Quay head, in the teeth of a hungry 
wind, which went wailing in the shrouds of the ships 
and gloomed upon the town. The hills stood out clear-cut 
in the last of the hard dry light. 

The regiment drawn up awaited the signal when the 
shop-lights should break out along the sea-front. It was 
that hour of greyness before lamplight when men come 
home from their labours and the birds have left the sky, 
and eye after eye the first stars begin the fife of the night 
— the hour of waiting on the earth. 

Suddenly the entrance to Gillespie’s shop and its plate- 
glass windows stood out warm and bright towards the 
Harbour, and the regiment became restive. 

“ Steady ! steady there ! ” the command rang out. 

The large green and red bottles shone in the window 
of the Medical Hall. One by one around Harbour Street 
the lights broke out in a curve of gold. 

“ Ready ! ” 

At the command the lanterns were lit. 

“ By the right, quick march ! ” 

Shoulder to shoulder the boy-army passed up the 
street of the old sea-town in silence. In the Square they 
wheeled and fronted the shops. Some of the fishermen 
had followed them from the Quay head; others joined 
them on the way and stood now along the Medical Hall 
and the Bank. The coffin — it had once contained ginger- 


GILLESPIE 


369 


beer bottles — was laid on the ground, and the lanterns were 
raised and lowered in the manner of signalling. A second 
time they were raised and held aloft, and a low, mournful 
chanting came from the bearers of the dead, and mingled 
with the sobbing of the sea around the Harbour wall : 

“Carry up a soldier, carry up a soldier, 

Carry up a soldier to the old churchyard.” 

The appointed bearers lugubriously waved their lanterns 
in slow passes. 

“ It’s Gillespa’s son,” some one said. The fishermen 
had ceased talking; windows were thrown open; the 
Banker and his wife were on the doorstep; Kyle the 
chemist, who was always so busy that he was rarely seen 
at his door, was out in his apron ; the Butler on the road 
to Brodie’s was at the foot of the brae where it runs into 
the Square, a man of amazement; Pat, the doctor’s 
driver, retreated from the Square which he had intended 
to cross to the ironmonger’s. Brieston waited and 
watched. 

The black box was again shouldered high, and the legion 
wheeled and headed for MacCalman’s Lane. With a 
crash of drums the chant broke out again above the wash 
of the sea : 

“Hear his mother weeping, hear his mother weeping, 

Hear his mother weeping near the old churchyard.” 

The music wailed along MacCalman’s Lane into the 
Back Street, trailing away to the right into the dark 
empty road leading to the churchyard. 

To the Captain the air was full of grief and wailing. 
He had forgotten he was in MacCalman’s Lane and that 
a horde of boys was at his back, as he crouched forward 
into the darkness of the graveyard road. Terror was 
about him — an unknown form of fear bestriding the dark, 
a monstrous danger, the flapping of carrion wings on a 

B B 


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GILLESPIE 


battlefield, a rushing in the air as of death. He repressed 
his sobs as he walked by the coffin, ahead of the long 
steel-shod tramp which rolled behind him as the noise of 
battle. He heard the shock of armies, and saw their 
onset in the thick of night ; and when the drums crashed 
out again and the dirge rose ’plaining : 

‘‘Hear the trumpets wailing, hear the trumpets wailing, 

Hear the trumpets wailing in the old churchyard. 

he ground his fists in his eyes, for he saw ahead the gates 
of the graveyard, and, passing on in imagination down 
the avenue between the yew-trees dripping in the dark, 
came on the widow mother weeping upon the mould, and 
heard the sound of wailing women among the rocks 
behind the grave. It was no mausoleum ; but a hole 
in the ground of damp yellow clay shining out like dull 
gold : 

“See the rifles flashing, see the rifles flashing, 

See the rifles flashing in the old churchyard. 1 * 

Away towards the loom of the hills he saw the gun- 
flashes, and the dark above the graveyard streaked with 
lines of fire. Around him the threnody rose and fell, 
full of the abandoned weeping of the mother. The mouth 
of the night opened like an inferno; the hills were full 
of red artillery. Spit ! spit ! Crack ! crack ! and the 
dead lay so solemn still through it all. The slow tramp, 
tramp behind him was pushing him on to a place of 
tears, woe, and horror; it was deepening into a sullen 
roar of doom. In another minute he would not be able 
to stem that tide of savage sound, and would be swept 
forward through the big wide gates of the graveyard, 
which led to that yellow damp hole in the ground. He 
was moving now in a trance; changing into stone; a 
heavy sleep was falling on his limbs; but his mind saw 
vividly the night ahead fearful with rifle-fire, snarling 


GILLESPIE 


371 


with trumpets, and stormy with the wailing of distraught 
women. A burning picture surged up before him of the 
dishevelled mother, her face stamped with a pale un- 
earthly radiance upon the background of the night. It 
was his mother’s face. It floated in the dark, essaying to 
rise, but could not for the weight of its sorrow. It was 
far away, flat like a picture on a dark wall. The eyes 
were upon him, full of unuttered pain and dim with 
ineffable tenderness. 

“ See the muskets flashing in the old churchyard.” 
The rifle-fire poured out like red rain, and fell like shoot- 
ing stars over the pale face framed on the wall of the 
night; streaming over her it washed her face in blood. 
He heard her moan wandering on the wind. 

The beating of his heart was stifling him, and the 
feet behind hounding him on. With a groan he shook 
off the fascination of the face, the mesmerism of the 
feet, and wheeling, fled swiftly as from an accursed 
place. Behind his back the night opened flash upon flash 
as the guns spat over the grave. . . . 

He burst in upon his mother and Topsail Janet, who 
cried out at his ghastly appearance. 

“ What ails the laddie ? Hae ye seen a ghost ? ” 

“ I’m feart, mither, I’m feart ; they’re buryin’ a sodger 
in the kirkyard.” 

His mother lifted her head from gazing at the fire and 
let it droop again. 

“ Dinna bother your mither the nicht, laddie, wi’ your 
nonsense; she’s no’ feelin’ weel,” wheedled Topsail. 

The boy crouched on the fender, and now and again 
cast a hungry eye upon his mother’s face. 


CHAPTER II 


His sanctuary in the aisles of the derelict smacks was 
desecrated for ever by the sad incursion of fact. There 
he had passed the most marvellous hours, sailing in shining 
ships down the wind, through purple seas, past grey 
navies, into ocean harbours beyond the flower-like isles 
of the deep. As he gazed up at the high, carved sterns 
and broken bulwarks, the thought of the strange lands 
these black ships had sailed to moved him strangely. 
On Saturdays he had aboard a press-gang, whom he set 
to the task of warping out a slaver for the Caribees, or a 
Viking to foray in the High Hebrides. Himself stood on 
the poop, a pilot of pirates, shouting the most incongruous 
sea-terms — Full speed ahead ! Stand by the winch ! and the 
like. A cloud of long ships of war sailed in his wake — 
keen battle-hawks harrying the sea-board of the west. 
He fought to the death against great odds, his battered 
fleet rolling sullenly in the gales, and his dead on the 
deck with their faces to the moon. His ships vanished 
in spindrift with the dim grandeur of death upon them, 
past lonely coasts till they huddled in the last harbours 
upon the rim of the world. 

Those fond sea-fights gave place to strife in reality, 
and the boy suddenly emerged into the vicissitudes of a 
too early youth. He had quietly stolen into the Butler’s 
shop with a message from Lonend, about whose farm he 
loved to wander. Brodie and Maclean were there, with 
some others whom he knew only by name. He withdrew 7 
372 


GILLESPIE 373 

into a shy corner and waited till the Butler should notice 
him. 

“ They put in four new elders. They’d my name 
among twenty. Duncan the shoemaker told me ” — the 
Butler was speaking. 

“ You wouldn’t stand,” wheezed Brodie. 

“ There’s plenty devils there already. Thomson, a 
bell-mouthed man; he’d tell the fleas he catches in his 
shirt. The tide-waiter, wi’ the dropsy in his eyes, blinkin’ 
like a hoodie standing on a stone. Might as well have 
Peepin with his crooked nose. Sinclair, a cat ! but he’s 
better since he married again. Now on Sundays he wears 
four different rigs; his lum hat in the afternoon; that’s 
what put him in. And Gillespie. Well ! well ! there’s 
aye a Judas. He’d lift the kirk away on his back if 
he could manage it, the thief.” 

At that moment the Butler lifted his head and looked 
into Eoghan’s eyes. He gazed for a second, and his eyes 
fell before the boy’s. Eoghan had a sharpness of intuition 
which, through a loose word or an unwary look, touched 
the pulse of men’s minds. He sensed an inimical atmo- 
sphere and that the Butler’s eyes had fallen nonplussed. 
He crept like one beaten out of the shop. It was the 
tea-hour when he reached home. His father was standing 
at the table cutting a loaf. His jacket shone, elbow and 
sleeves; his wristbands were frayed; a battered sailor’s 
cap was a-rake on his head ; the tip of his tongue protruded 

“ I used to mand ten shaves off a loaf ; noo there’s 
only nine. That baker’s a fair robber.” He flung off his 
cap and sat down to table. Eoghan, with his slice of 
bread ready buttered and cut in two, was lifting his 
hand when he overturned the cup. The tea drenched 
the bread and scalded his leg. He sat like a stone, the 
yellowish sodden mass before him. His father glanced 
at him and went on eating. Eoghan was hungry, but 


374 


GILLESPIE 


dared not stretch out his hand for another piece of bread. 
Furtively his mother pushed her slice to him across the 
oil-cloth. 

“ Just so, auld wife, spoil him. Ye’ll keep the other 
slice an’ gie ’t to him the morn for his breakfast. Mind, 

„ „ „ 5 J 

noo. 

Eoghan, with eyes bent on the veined oil-cloth, rose 
from the table, gulping back hot tears of anger. 

“ Whaur hae ye been the day ? ” asked his father. 

“ Nowhere.” 

“ Nowhere ! it’s time ye were oot the school. When I 
was your age I’d my ain basket o’ lines an’ money in the 
bank. Idlin’ your time. Ye’ll tek’ the lines an’ go oot 
to the banks the morn an’ try for whiteys. They’re 
shullin’s the stone ee noo.” Gillespie rubbed the back 
of an eczema-blotched hand across his mouth. His 
father’s imperviousness maddened Eoghan. To breathe 
the least of his youth’s ambitions would be to drink 
bitterness; and he felt that a prophecy of something 
signal in life was upon his brow. 

“ I’m no’ goin’ to be a fisherman,” he said stubbornly, 
defending his prophecy. 

“ An’ what is my gentleman goin’ to be ? ” 

“Mr. Kennedy asked me if I would like to go to the 
University.” This request had changed the current of 
the boy’s life and gave him a land of dreams. McAskill 
had shown him a photograph of Glasgow University, over 
whose stately edifice he had pored by the hour. 

“ Let the schoolmaister pey for your coallegin’, then,” 
Gillespie answered tartly, and left the room. 

The boy, much troubled, accosted Topsail Janet that 
evening. “ I heard them in the Butler’s shop call my 
father a thief.” 

“ Wheest ! wheest ! Eoghan ; it’s no’ for thae trash 
to speak o’ him. He keepit a wheen o’ them through 


GILLESPIE 


375 


many a hungry winter. Ye should be prood o’ your 
faither. He’s the richest man in Brieston ; an’ it’s no’ 
for you to be heedin’ thae kiss-ma-futs. Your faither’s 
a savin’ man for us a’. It’s everything in the world to 
hae a good faither. Ye’ll get your he’rt crackit noo an’ 
again in the world, but that’s naethin’ if ye hae a gude 
hame. An’ it’s your faither that’s battlin’ wi’ the world 
to keep the roof ower a’ oor heids.” 

Still troubled, Eoghan walked through the Square and 
down Harbour Street on his way to the “ Ghost.” Was 
he wrong, after all, to accept the Butler’s opinion of his 
father, and was not Topsail right ? Early and late his 
father slaved — watching for the boats before dawn ; behind 
the counter all day; and wrestling with his ledgers at 
night. There was a murky light in the store, and he 
peered in at the window. He saw his father stooping 
over a bag, counting oysters. A guttering torch splayed 
the interior with great shadows and patches of smoke. 
The store was draughty and slushy ; cold, cheerless, damp. 
The patient figure within went on rising and stooping 
at its lonely toil. Eoghan recalled the eczema on his 
father’s hands. It would never heal with such raw 
work. The tears welled up in his eyes ; he wanted to go 
in and help ; but was too sensitive. What excuse could he 
offer ? He turned away and hurried home. 

“ Mother,” he said, “ you’ll no’ quarrel wi’ father the 
night ? ” Those quarrels were frequent. 

“ No ! I’ll no’ quarrel,” she answered weariedly. 

Towards ten o’clock Gillespie came in. He unlaced his 
boots and straightened his back. 

“I’m fashed wi’ rheumatics in my shouther,” he said ; 
and laid his hand on his shoulder-blade. 

“ Late again at your books ” — Eoghan burned with 
mortification as he heard his mother’s querulous voice — 
“ ye’d think you hadn’t a wife.” 


376 


GILLESPIE 


“Bonnie wife,’ 5 he growled; “she does a’ the com- 
pleenin’ an’ I dae a’ the work.” In a moment the quarrel 
was full-pitched. Eoghan held his mother a traitor who 
had broken the peace incontinent. He looked savagely 
at her, and went off to bed without saying good-night. 

In the morning he poured some syrup on a spoon for 
his porridge — Gillespie allowed no milk — and sullenly 
traced out golden curves with the viscous stuff across the 
half-cold slab of meal. His mother poured him out a cup 
of tea. 

“ There’s no bread in the house,” she said with an 
abstracted air. 

Eoghan, looking up, saw crumbs only on the bread-plate, 
and a pang shot to his heart, a sudden fear of penury. 

“ No bread ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Has my faither no money ? ” 

She smiled faintly. “ He has plenty in the bank.” 

He felt relieved ; but was puzzled. His mother looked 
very pale; there were thin blue veins on her trembling 
hands. A vague fear assailed him. He searched for his 
cap and stole away to school full of pity and dread. 

He found no respite that day from his torment . Passing 
on his road to school at the dinner-hour he loitered at the 
end of the Back Street, where certain women were baiting 
the lines. It was a raw day. 

“ Cold work ? ” he said. 

Black Jean could not resist a jibe and snarled : 

“ Ay ! an’ a’ for Gillespa’s son.” 

Nan at Jock saw the pained look on the boy’s flushed 
face. 

“ Never heed her, Eoghan ; her bark’s worse nor her 
bite. Think shame, Jean, speakin’ that wy.” 

As Eoghan walked away with bent head he heard Nan at 
Jock’s angry voice. “ Let the boy alone, wi’ his mother 


GILLESPIE 


377 


puttin’ up blood as black as coomb,” and the angrier 
retort — “ No wonder; thon slasher o’ a man aye huntin’ 
her the wy the boys hunt wee cuddies at the Quay.” 

Eoghan was now full of the wildest apprehensions. At 
four o’clock he went to the shop to ask his father what 
Black Jean meant. A smack had arrived with a cargo 
of coal from Ardrossan. The rawness of the afternoon 
had turned to rain. The Square was rutted with the 
frequent passage of carts to the ree, black with coal-dust, 
and deep in mud; and the coal itself was sodden and 
foul. Gillespie, wearing an apron, and a pen in the left 
ear, was standing at his shop door watching the carters. 

Eoghan told him what he had heard. 

44 She said that, did she ? ” he interrogated with a grin. 

4 4 I’m gled she minds she’s in my debt. She’ll hae to 
shell a wheen mair mussels afore she’ll pey me the last 
boll o’ meal I gied her. Tak’ that cairt,” he roared across 
the Square, 44 up to Stuart.” 

The little bow-legged man ran to the head of the 
horse, jerked the reins, and wheeled the beast round to 
the brae. A word from Gillespie had galvanised him. 
Eoghan felt himself dismissed. There was something 
ruthless, despotic in his father. 

44 Mother,” he said, throwing down his books, 44 are ye 
no’ feeling well ? ” 

44 I’m bothered with my breath.” Her face was pale. 

44 Will I go for the doctor ? ” His voice was trembling ; 
he felt sick. 

She shook her head. 

44 The doctor told me long ago to take a little drop o’ 
spirits. It gives me ease.” 

He started forward eagerly. 

44 I’ll go for some.” 

44 I’ve no money, Eoghan : your father doesn’t allow 
it.” 


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GILLESPIE 


Rage choked him. He clenched his hands as he stood 
looking at her, and a wave of devouring tenderness surged 
over him. 

“ Don’t you fret, mother. I’ll get money.” 

He returned to the Square. On carting days he knew 
that at intervals his father hurried from the shop to the 
ree. For an hour he stood sentinel. Sandy the Fox was 
again coming up the street by the horse’s head, and 
Gillespie appeared at the door, crossed the Square, and 
accompanied Sandy into MacCalman’s Lane to the ree. 
Immediately the cart jolted round the Bank corner, 
Eoghan slipped into the shop, scurried round the counter, 
opened the till, and drew out a handful of coins. Stuffing 
them into his pocket, he darted into the office and out 
by the back door. 

When gloaming fell he roused Brodie from his perusal 
of the Glasgow Herald , and bought a bottle of whisky. 


CHAPTER III 


Gillespie had taken down his shutters precisely at 
seven o’clock on the morning on which his boats had 
been burned in the Harbour — earlier by an hour than his 
usual time — and with partially frozen water washed the 
large plate-glass windows, as he had done for sixteen 
years. Scores of curious eyes were upon his methodical 
movements. It was the day for the country van. He 
went to the coal-ree, summoned the Fox, and helped him 
to load the cart with sacks of flour and meal, and with 
provisions, exactly as he had done last week. The Fox, 
afraid to lift his eyes to Gillespie’s face, scurried about 
in silence, and at last gathered up the reins with the 
feeling of a prisoner leaving jail. He breathed a larger 
air as he took the west brae. He had felt that he was 
on the crater of a dormant volcano. Gillespie had given 
him final instructions in an even voice, advising him of 
the amount of butter, eggs, and cheese he was to bring 
back from the country. Then at the shop door, in the 
face of the Square and of Harbour Street, he placidly 
shook his apron free of the particles of flour. He was 
waving a flag in the teeth of Brieston. The sight caused 
Kyle, a rooted Calvinist, to shiver. To the Chemist it was 
the flouting of Heaven by an unrepentant demon-soul. 

As the day passed the usual events occurred. The 
Ardmarkie mail-coach thundered down the brae at noon, 
and Maclean and Watty Foster walked down the street 
to Brodie’s. The mail steamer from Glasgow arrived 
up to Government time, and carried back intelligence 

379 


380 


GILLESPIE 


unofficial but weighty, to be sown along astonished ports 
of call. The town in its afternoon languor stood in knots 
at the Quay head, at the Barracks, at the hotel corners. 
The Square alone was deserted. Stuart on that day was 
to have sold doves in the temple ; but four women only 
came to the jumble sale. Brieston coughed discreetly 
behind its hand, wondering how soon Gillespie would 
take action and the dynamite explode. It was rumoured 
that he had turned Campbell the policeman out of the 
shop with a flea in his ear. The town was standing over 
a loaded mine. Chrystal Logan said he could hear the 
fuse spluttering. 

No one was seen to enter Gillespie’s shop that day. 

44 He has a face lik’ the wrath o’ Goad,” some one had 
said in the morning. Towards evening it was reported 
that Gillespie had not turned a hair. The town, robbed 
of a spectacle, was murmurous. Brieston thought Gillespie 
was intimidated and hid his face. 

44 Let him cairry on the glory noo,” boasted Red 
Duncan openly. 44 He’ll ken whether me or him has the 
strongest back stays. I’ve got to windward o’ him at 
last; an’ I’ll keep my weather eye on him.” Some said 
Gillespie was resigned ; others that he was leaving 
Brieston; none saw in him a gaunt tree stripped by a 
gale of all its branches, yet standing up again unflinchingly 
to the ruthless sky. 

On the morrow Gillespie made no sign that the 
debacle had caused him to lose an hour’s sleep, and 
the Quay received a shock. The Fishery Officer walked 
across from his office bareheaded, a telegram in his hand. 
The Loch was full of herring; the Ardmarkie men with 
new trawls were filling their boats. He had been to 
Gillespie. There was a man of iron nerve. He was 
going out in the Sudden Jerk to buy the Ardmarkie 
herring. 44 It’ll take a bigger flame than you men can 


GILLESPIE 


381 


light for him to play the moth at. He says you’ve cut 
your own throats. The one half o’ ye have neither boats 
nor gear.” 

That portion of the fleet — some thirty-five boats — 
which had not been mortgaged to Gillespie, and which 
had not perished in the fire, was hurriedly got ready 
and put to sea. In the midst of the brown sails moving 
down the Harbour could be seen the lean, cream-coloured 
funnel of the Sudden Jerk. 

The next day two boats came back full of herring. 
Whether it was because the sea had been so niggard 
for almost a year or not, the men could not tell ; but 
herring was not only plentiful — “ Fair boiling in the 
watter,” said one of the crews — but of excellent quality; 
large and firm. The Sudden Jerk had gone to Glasgow 
loaded to the funnel, and Gillespie, unable to carry more, 
had sent these two boats to Brieston with instructions for 
Sandy the Fox to see that they were “ roiled in saut an’ 
gutted.” A list of the gutter’s names was handed to the 
Fox — the names of certain women who had pledged their 
services to Gillespie in return for food during the winter 
— the debt to be paid off at the rate of ninepence a barrel. 

The men whose boats had been burned looked on with 
hungry eye. The Loch beyond the Harbour mouth boiled 
with fine herring; they had neither boats nor nets; and 
Gillespie was in Glasgow. The town was empty in his 
absence. Two crews were formed, which put to sea 
with old drift-nets in two line boats. The rest of the men 
stood at the “Shipping Box” with their hands in their 
pockets. And the sun shone on the charred remains of 
their fleet. As they looked in the revealing light a closed 
carriage rolled up the north brae. They scarcely glanced 
at it across the empty Harbour. It contained Dr. Maclean, 
who sat opposite Queebec, beside whom was Campbell 
the policeman. On Queebec’s thin red wrists were a 


382 


GILLESPIE 


pair of handcuffs. The other evening he had entered 
Gillespie’s shop and attempted to set it on fire, and later 
attempted his life with a razor. Maclean was taking 
Queebec to the asylum at Bannerie. On passing through 
the Square a spasm of passion contorted Queebec’s face ; 
he wished to get out and burn the shop. Maclean in some 
way had become his enemy ; he must get rid of Maclean. 
A look of cunning came into his eyes as he leaned forward. 

“ Doctor,” he whispered, beckoning, “ come here; I’ve 
something to tell ye.” Maclean inclined his head, and 
the next moment two hands were madly grappling about 
his throat. The carriage rocked and swayed as the two 
men fought, Queebec clinging on with a madman’s 
strength. Pat leapt from the dickey before the horses 
had pulled up, and as he wrenched the door open saw his 
master put up his knee and jab it violently into Queebec’s 
abdomen. The lunatic relaxed his grip and fell backwards 
foaming. Maclean leapt on him and pinioned him down. 

“ Drive to the police station, Pat,” he ordered. Thus 
Queebec, his mission on earth accomplished, went to the 
asylum in Bannerie with handcuffs on his wrists. 

The fishermen on the Quay head, however, scarcely 
noted the carriage, for they were watching the herring 
gutters. There is nothing which gives to one ashore 
such a profound impression of the riches of the sea as a 
herring-gutting scene. The wings of angels hover upon 
the silvery mass as one looks abroad over a field of fish 
in many boats. Those beautiful fish, silk-shot with a 
greenish-blue through the scales, are the strongest 
hostages against penury. From the cold deep they 
have come to brighten the hearth ; fashioned in silver in 
the dark, as diamonds in the bowels of the earth. The 
burnishing of knives was a labour of love in the Back 
Street. What a sight it was to see again the big fishing- 


GILLESPIE 


383 


boats laced with scales and the shining pile in the Square. 
The women sat on empty herring boxes by the pile, their 
arms bared and dappled with blood. They worked in 
pairs, one gutting, the other salting and packing in the 
barrels. Every hour or so they exchanged duties, for it 
is wearing on the back constantly to be stooping over a 
barrel, and wearying to the wrist and fingers unceasingly 
to be tearing out the guts of fish and jerking it on to the 
red heap of offal. When the dusk came the work was 
continued within the store, whose interior, lit with 
torches, presented a weird spectacle. Beneath the glare 
of the torches mingled with smoke, the gutters with 
blood-stained hands sat around, their faces starting out 
of the reek in the murky light and falling again into 
shadow. The pile of herring smouldered in pools of dull 
gold. There was a sense of happiness in the atmosphere. 
The moving of the waters, for which they had so long 
waited, had come, and tongues went as fast as knives. 
What would the men do who had no boats ? they had 
been fools to burn them. The big guttings of former 
days were recalled when the splendid fishing lured gutters 
from Stornoway and Peterhead to Brieston. Old times 
were restored; the old dead were resurrected; the aged 
were seen as young. 

“ Many’s the guttin’ ye hae sang at noo, Flory ; ” and 
as the torches flicker and the knives grow idle, and the 
weary hands are at rest a moment, a sweet treble voice 
sings the Scottish ballad : 

“Last night there were four Maries, 

To-night they’ll be but three,’* 

and fifty women take up the haunting air, making it 
swell beyond the rafters and the roof to the night and 
the stars. In that song the hungry days are ended, and 
the sorrows of the sea. 

Daily the gutting went on, and Gillespie moved briskly 


384 


GILLESPIE 


through the town. The men without boats, eaten up 
with mortification, watched the business at first with 
rage, and then, as news came in of big fishings, with 
despair. The carpenters would not risk the big under- 
taking of building boats for bankrupts. 

“ Ye’re weirin’ your clothes oot against the “ Shippin’ 
Box,” boys, an’ the Ardmarkie men mekin’ a fortune,” 
cried Gillespie, with the cheeriest voice in the world, as 
he passed to the gutting shed. “I’d seeven hunner boxes 
o’ fine big herrin’ this week for Glesca.” 

It was Red Duncan who answered : 

“ We hevna a plank to float on, or a mesh to wet.” 

“ Ay ! boys,” said Gillespie, “ fire’s no’ a chancy 
thing;” and that was the single reference which he 
made to what had come to be known as the “ Night of 
the Big Burning.” 

He invited those who wished to fit out boats to meet 
him that afternoon in his office at the shop — one man 
to represent each crew. Every crew sent a representative. 
Gillespie, with ledger open, reminded them of the mort- 
gages on the old boats. Some were bonded full value : 
others three -fourths ; others again one-half. Were the 
men willing to let the bond lie ? They were fools to go 
idle with such a fishing; but he had no desire to press 
them; he had sufficient on his hands, what with buying 
herring, and gutting and provisioning the existing 
Brieston fleet. He hated, however, to see the men idle 
with such good prospects. Did they agree ? 

Fast enough — Red Duncan was the spokesman; but 
they wanted to get to the fishing immediately. It would 
take months to build a fleet. By that time the best of 
the fishing would be over. 

“ Surely, Donnacaidh, you don’t think I’m such a 
gomeril as a’ that. I hae at this meenut a boat for every 
wan that was burned.” 


GILLESPIE 


385 


The men’s faces expressed their incredulity. 

“ I hae reinged everywhere, frae the Heids o’ Ayr to 
Stornoway, and bocht up a’ the boats I could hear tell 
o’. I hae them lyin’ up at Greenack ready.” 

Incredulity now gave place to unbounded admiration, 
and then to vague alarm. They became afraid of this man’s 
tenacity of purpose and his gigantic enterprise. They 
were pawns in his stupendous game. “ Of course,” he 
went on, “you boys needna tek’ ower the boats; I’m 
no’ forcin’ ye. I’ll can get crews for them a’ frae Kerry 
an’ Bannerie an’ Ardmarkie ; an’, as you say, Donnacaidh, 
the carpenters ’ill tek’ months to beeld ye new boats. 
An’ whaur are ye to get the money? Lowrie ’ill no’ 
advance ye a ha’penny.” Gillespie had made sure of 
this. 

“ Noo, boys, are ye on, or are ye no’ ? ” He spoke 
briskly, rubbing his hands. 

“ There’s noathin’ else we can do ; we’re on oor beam 
ends,” muttered Red Duncan. 

“ Weel ! weel ! that’s common sense at last. Noo, I’ll 
gie ye an account o’ what the boats cost me.” The name 
of each boat was mentioned, was assigned to a crew, and 
then her price shown, the receipt being displayed. The 
first thing they would have to do would be to pay Gillespie 
back the price of each boat. His capital had lain out 
for a considerable time in the purchase of these boats. 
Had they taken a bill on the bank to build a new fleet, 
Lowrie would have charged them interest at five per cent. 
He, Gillespie, would charge only four and a half per cent. 

Till the principal and interest were paid he would look 
on the boats as his own. Thereafter the old bond on 
them given for provisions would remain, and on the 
bond Gillespie would claim his share of the profits. The 
boats would still remain his to the extent to which they 
had been pledged by the bond — some few of them his 


386 GILLESPIE 

wholly ; others to the extent of three-fourths ; others 
again to one-half. 

“ That’s my proposeetion, boys ; tak’ it or leave it. If 
ye don’t agree, there’s noathin’ for it but to gang back 
to the‘ Shipping Box,’ and watch the other Brieston men 
mekin’ a fortune. I’ll easily mand to get crews oot o’ 
Kerry an’ Bannerie; ” his voice was insinuating, depre- 
cating. Wrath now mingled with their fear — wrath at 
their own impotence, for they were tied hand and foot. 
He had turned the flames of the lost fleet upon them- 
selves. They cursed the ravings of Queebec, but he had 
found an asylum from their wrath ; and blaspheming the 
name of Lonend, asked what had moved that farmer to 
mix himself up with the affairs of the fishermen. When 
each man had signed, Gillespie instructed them to gather 
their crews on Monday morning and go by luggage steamer 
to Greenock, bring the fleet to Brieston, and get it pro- 
visioned. He laughingly told the men as they trooped 
out that they would require to furnish the boats with a 
considerable amount of new gear, and of course trawl-nets. 
They went away humbled. 

“ Thon bit bleeze is the best thing that ever happened 
to Gillespa’ Strang,” he informed the canary, as he 
tickled the bird with the point of a pen. He stood to 
make a huge profit out of the fire. The women were 
paying off their arrears at the gutting ; he would get four 
and a half per cent, on his capital; would rake in his 
share money on the takings of the men ; and there would 
fall to be sold a considerable quantity of new gear. 

But in the matter of gear Gillespie had over-estimated 
human nature, and the indecency of some of the men 
betrayed itself. Nets, sails, oars, water-casks, chains, 
tackle, began to see the light from the obscurity of lofts, 
outhouses, and from beneath beds. This enraged those 
men who had been loyal to the conspiracy. All was to have 


GILLESPIE 


387 


been burned. This did not prevent many, however, 
from sneaking nets and gear out of the doomed boats 
under cover of night. It was hellish, said the honest 
men; they had been betrayed and overreached in their 
own camp. Bitterness was gendered which caused 
enmity between some of the men for life. A section took 
up arms for Gillespie, and even turned informers, so that 
Gillespie had the culprits under his thumb. 

“ I could clap ye in jyle the morn,” he said to Red 
Duncan. 

“ Ye can clap Lonen’ along wi’ me then,” flung back 
the fisherman. 

“Ay! ay!” answered Gillespie softly; “I jaloosed 
the win’ blew oot o’ that dirty airt.” 

The fire had strengthened Gillespie’s hands all round, 
and he was induced to believe in the justice of Heaven 
visited upon the unrighteous. He made his counter a 
pulpit, from which he preached softly of the wrath of 
God upon the iniquitous, and sedulously attended church. 
After a week he omitted his sanctimonious discourses, 
being immersed body and soul in the glittering pursuit 
of gain. Brieston stood in wholesome fear of him, though 
they nagged at his name. One example will suffice. 
Tamar Lusk, by reason of his position as a vendor of 
fripperies, had a seat on the Parish Council. 

If some o’ you boys were wi’ me roond the green cloth ” 
— he was standing on the edge of his boot soles — “ up 
gyards an’ at them : it’s a’ for the good o’ the place I’m 
aifter ; but since Gillespie came on the Council ” — Gillespie 
was Poor Law Clerk — “ ye’ll no even get a bottle o’ oat- 
meal stout at the meetin’. It used to be a cheery place 
wi’ the bottle on the green cloth an’ the crack goin’ back 
an’ forrut. Now everything’s that clean cut, there’s no’ 
even dreepin’. It’s no pleasure noo, but back-bitin’ an’ 
business, an’ business an’ back-bitin’.” 


388 


GILLESPIE 


Tamar’s deep-sea cap was rakishly askew, his left eye 
closed, his right shining beneath a white eyebrow stiff 
as pig-bristles. He beat time to his philippic with his 
left foot. 

“ Ay ! he came an’ axed for my furniture for a wee 
debt o’ mine ” — this was an old piracy of Gillespie’s. 
Tamar’s thick neck swelled with rage; his face was 
turkey-red, in midst of which his fiery little tongue 
clapped — “ Boys ! I’d a noise wi’ him. I’m a sergeant 
o’ the Volunteers ” — the left eye opened and closed; he 
appeared to be sighting a monster gun — “ ready for my 
Keeng an’ country any time. But no quarters wi’ him. 
He’s a Rooshian. Shoved his backside to the door an’ 
axed for the furniture lik’ a drink o’ watter. An’ it 
didna gie him a red face. But I’ll get to windward o’ 
him. Doon yonder at the Quay it’s fair sweemin’ wi’ 
muck an’ herrin’-guts. Ye canna steer wi’ barrels an’ 
deevilment an’ dirt. See if I don’t speak to the Laird. 
Heavens ! boys ! am I no’ a Pairish Cooncillor ? I fought 
for ’t, an’ my rival had a heap o’ votes. I got a noise 
frae the Receiver o’ Wrecks aboot the fish-guts. Of 
course he’d a right to speak to me, me being on the 
Board ; but no’ thon wy o’ attackin’ me lik’ a pickpocket. 
I told him gey smert who he belonged to, an’ to go an’ 
compleen to Gillespie. They need the hems on them, 
the hale jeeng-bang o’ them.” 

“ Is that me you’re speakin’ aboot, Tamar ? ” came the 
well-known sibilant voice, as Gillespie came round the 
corner of the “ Shipping Box,” cran basket in hand. 

“ Ay ! an’ I was just sayin’ to the boys that the 
Receiver o’ Wrecks yocked on me yesterday in my 
capaceety as Pairish Cooncillor aboot the herrin’-guts at 
the Quay. You bate, Gillespie, I gied him his coffee. 
You’d think us poor boys could catch herrin’ withoot 
guts to hear the wy he goes on.” 


GILLESPIE 


389 


“ Just speak a word in his ear, Tamar,” answered the 
peacemaker ; “ that we’re thrang cairtin’ the guts ower the 
Quay heid. It’ll feed the stanelacs.” 

“ It’ll no’ gie him that satisfaction, Gillespie ” — the 
eye closed down valiantly beneath the spear-serried 
bristles — “ he should be thankfu’ to see the pickle guts. 
It’s no’ every day there’s a big fishin’, an’ he’ll get his 
own wheck on Setterday when the boys share.” 

“ I hope, Tamar, the fishin’s taen a turn for the better. 
It’s badly needit,” answered Gillespie. 

“ Ay ! ay ! Gillespie,” Tamar cried to the bulky re- 
treating figure. “ I wish I saw ye up to the eyes in 
herrin’-guts frae noo to Neerday.” 

Gillespie, walking towards the store, heard a roar of 
laughter behind him. 

“ Tamar ! Tamar ! ” the Bent Preen was saying, 
“ ye’ll need to go back to the Volunteers an’ learn to 
face the enemy.” 

Tamar stared after Gillespie, and his head righted from 
its valorous list. 

“ He’s a crool man, thon ; it’s no’ chancy cornin’ in his 
raiverence; but he’ll hear more o’ his muck when I put 
in my oar roond the green cloth. Just you wait.” 

“ Keep your oar,” said Big Finla’, “ for the next hau] 
at Barlaggan.” 

Thus Gillespie was hated and feared in secret; but 
the salutary lesson of the “ Big Burning ” left him immune 
from any further open attack. He thought himself 
invincible, invulnerable. 


CHAPTER IV 


“ Nae use peyin’ a man when I hae a son for the work.” 
In this summary fashion Iain, Gillespie’s eldest son, was 
taken from the “ Ghost ” and made to share Eoghan’s 
room. He was a tall, spare lad of twenty or about, 
with a dark complexion and a thin dark moustache. 
His face in repose had a mournful look. He was inclined 
to be taciturn, and would sit by the hour at the fireside 
in the “ Ghost ” humming songs or playing upon the 
flute. He was of a saving disposition — “ a canny easy- 
goin’ Scot ” — it was said of him — “ wha kens to keep 
his mouth an’ his neif shut.” He evinced the keenest 
interest in out-of-the-way characters, and with his dark 
eyes lit with fun made the shrewdest observations upon 
their doings. On these occasions he fell into sudden 
unsophisticated laughter which, for all his parsimonious 
disposition, betrayed a careless side to his nature. He 
was sterlingly honest, had saved the bulk of the money 
he had earned, and was ill-dressed. He had noticed 
that poor people get little consideration in the world. 
“ The best freend is a pickle money o’ your own, young 
fella,” he would say to Eoghan, raining affection out of 
his dark eyes upon his thin-faced, elfin brother. But he 
had none of the greed of his father who, unable now to 
attend to his business ashore and to his herring buying, 
put Iain aboard the Sudden Jerk. The son was already 
skilled in the sea and very hardy ; he endured fatigue and 
danger without talking about it. 

It was Saturday when Iain had rest from the Sudden 
390 


GILLESPIE 


391 


J erk , and Eoghan had pleaded with him to go on a nutting 
expedition. On the road at the head of West Loch 
Brieston, they met the spey-wife, whose husband was a 
tinsmith. She wore a shepherd tartan shawl and big 
heavy boots, and in her left hand she carried a shepherd’s 
crook ; on her right arm a bundle of shining jangling cans. 
Round her neck she wore a long chain, composed of 
the small silver coins of many nations. Iain laughingly 
accosted her. “ Fine day, old lady.” 

The spey-wife rubbed a rheumy substance from her 
eyes and peered at Eoghan. 

“ What’s your name, my bonny boy ? ” 

“ Eoghan Strang.” 

She put out a hooked skinny forefinger. 

“ Ay ! ye hae the spunk o’ the Logans. I can tell it 
by your e’e. It’s a peety o’ the Strangs.” 

“ A peety, old lot ? ” Iain asked, good-humouredly. 

“ Ay ! while there’s water to droon, or fire to burn, 
or poison to mak’ an’ end, a Strang ’ill no’ die easy in 
bed.” 

Iain’s fine white teeth flashed beneath his moustache 
as he burst out laughing. 

“ Well, that’s ripe, old party.” 

The spey-wife sighed and looked at the younger 
brother. 

“ One o’ ye ’ill mind my words when ye’re liftin’ the 
other oot o’ the water.” She mouthed at Eoghan, 
jingled her chain of foreign coins, and added, “We can 
nane o’ us help but dree oor weird,” and tramped 
heavily up the road towards Brieston, her tin cans 
jangling loudly on the still morning air. 

The brothers walked on for a little in silence. Eoghan 
shivered as he spoke. 

“ The blatter o’ her cans made me think o’ the sign at 
the ‘ Ghost ’ on windy nights,” 


392 


GILLESPIE 


“She’s a queer old card;” Iain’s eyes were full of 
merriment. 

It was dusk as they came out of the hazel wood with 
their pillow-slips full of nuts and, too hungry and tired 
for conversation, trudged on in silence. When they came 
to the head of the brae beneath the church, Eoghan 
stopped in his walk to shift his pillow-slip from one 
shoulder to the other. 

“ Iain, I’ve a queer feelin’ that the spey-wife is right. 
It came to me in the wood, and I got frightened. The wood 
was full o’ eyes watchin’ me.” 

Iain’s face was long and mournful. 

“ You’re needin’ your tea, young fella,” he answered; 
“you’re tired; gie me your pillow-slip.” Iain’s face 
remained mournful as he walked down the brae, and he 
began to whistle softly with his mouth very wide, and 
his eyes fixed ahead on the Harbour. Eoghan felt a 
weary weight of inexpressible sorrow at the sight of his 
brother’s face, and was so fatigued and miserable that 
he went down the brae in a little blind trot. As he pushed 
open the front door at the head of the stairs he heard 
his mother in the kitchen singing plaintively a ballad 
of old-time sorrow in the West Countree. This intensified 
his melancholy. The kitchen was gloomy, for the wick 
of the lamp was smoking. As was usual on Saturdays 
tea was late. He felt faint, and the droning of his mother 
irritated him. 

“ I wish, mother,” he said irascibly, “ you would 
stop that singin’ an’ get the tea; I’m hungry.” 

“Janet’s away down to the shop for butter,” she 
answered; “ she’ll be back in a minute ” — she smiled at 
him dreamily. “ I haven’t felt so well for ages. I took a 
wee drop out of the bottle you gave me. What would I 
do without you and Margaret ? You’re the only friends I 


GILLESPIE 


393 


have.” She passed her left hand slowly across her 
forehead and pushed her fingers among her hair. 

“ Is Mr. Campion teaching you Latin yet ? ” she asked. 
He was surprised at the question, because she rarely 
referred to his work at school. 

“ What makes you ask, mother ? ” 

“ He said you were going to the University.” 

“ Who? Mr. Campion? ” 

She made no answer. Cheeks on her hands and elbows 
on her knees, she gazed into the fire. 

“ Where did you see Mr. Campion, mother ? ” His 
decisive loud tone was meant to summon her attention, 
for Topsail’s heavy foot was on the stair. “ Where ? ” 

“ I see him sometimes when I go to Lonend.” She 
spoke falteringly with a flushed face. 

Topsail entered with a loaf in one hand and some butter 
on a plate in the other. “ Iain’s awa’ doon to the 
4 Ghost ’ for his tea,” she announced. 

That night Eoghan lay in bed reading. A storm, 
which had arisen at nightfall, was blowing in fierce gusts. 
The scurry of the rain on the window was like the fingers 
of wild wandering things of the night trying to get in 
from the wind, which sounded like a gigantic steel saw 
ripping up the dark. The hoarse sea plunged upon the 
Harbour wall like a monstrous blind thing in pain seeking 
rest. “ What a night ! it frightens me. I wish Iain 
hadn’t gone to the ‘ Ghost,’ ” he thought. His active 
brain gave him no respite. “ The air is full of flying 
things. I wonder what men are doing out at sea 
to-night.” 

Was that the sneck of the outside door ? He listened 
intently. Somebody was groping to lift it from the 
outside. It was of peculiar construction. In the wood 
of the door was cut out a circular hole, into which a 


394 


GILLESPIE 


finger when pushed came in contact with an iron circular 
disc, which lifted the sneck within. “ It’s Iain come 
home to sleep after all,” he thought, with a sense of 
relief. Presently he heard his father in his stocking 
soles pad, padding along the passage from the kitchen. 

“ Whaur hae ye been straivigin’ to this time o’ the 
nicht ? ” 

“ It’s my mother ; ” the thought shot through him 
with sudden, unaccountable fear. 

“ Am I to be keepin’ the lamp burnin’ a’ nicht for 
ye ? If ye’d another man it’s kicked oot ye’d be.” 

Eoghan jumped up to a sitting posture in bed, as a 
skirl of laughter broke on his ear — shrill, defiant, inane 
laughter. “ But ye’re the angry man, Gillespie; it’s no’ 
that often I take a jaunt.” 

“ Come in wi’ ye ! ” he heard his father snarl. The 
bed shook beneath Eoghan with his agitation. His 
heart was beating violently against his ribs. A step 
stumbled in the passage; his father’s footfall shuffled 
past, soft as an animal’s ; there was a dull sound of a 
door being shut, followed by silence. He breathed 
easier now. Where could she have been so late on such 
a night ? She must be soaked to the skin. His alert 
ear was listening for what was beyond the closed doors. 
Vague soft voices purred in the distance as if caressing 
each other; a mouse scuttled behind the wall, and once 
more there was silence, through which he heard the 
tick ! tack ! tick ! tack ! of the death-watch, like a 
small, invincible voice riding the storm. Suddenly there 
was a crash somewhere in the kitchen. Again he sat 
bolt upright. The kitchen door opened, and in the 
draught from the outside stair it snapped to with a 
whip-like crack that echoed through the house. “ What 
is going on ? what is going on ? ” The beating of his heart 
was stifling him, and he crouched forward on his knees. 


GILLESPIE 


395 


Softly, as if a ghost were seeking entrance, his own door 
was pushed open; slowly, inch by inch, and at every 
inch a drop of blood seemed to ooze from his heart. 
His eyes dilated with fear when his mother appeared in 
the doorway in a white nightdress open at the neck, 
her long black hair tumbled on her shoulders. Her 
breathing was rapid, and her eyes, brilliant as with 
fever, had a hard, bovine stare. There were brick-red 
patches on her cheek-bones. In her right hand she 
held a heavy lamp by a long, slender pillar. The sight 
of her hectic, disordered appearance made Eoghan feel 
faint. Her eyes, stupidly searching round the room, fell 
on the crouching form of her son. 

“ Eoghan ! Eoghan ! will ye no’ take me into bed ? ” 

The words were the frightened wail of a child, and 
pierced his heart. The fainting seizure passed from him ; 
he felt himself endued with marvellous strength, and 
leapt from the bed. She was swaying like a tree in a 
gale ; her face full of profound sorrow. The swaying 
ceased, and the body began to sag backwards and for- 
wards. The heavy lamp took a list in her hand, and 
the funnel smoked. He jumped forward and caught 
the pillar. 

“ Mother,” he cried, “ ye’ll put the house on fire.” 

They looked at each other in silence. All at once he 
trembled, and a horrified look came into his face as the 
dreadful truth flashed upon him. Afraid that the lamp 
which he held in his shaking hand would fall, he stag- 
gered to the dressing-table where a candle was burning, 
and with his two hands placed down the lamp. She 
followed him, sobbing. 

“ Let me in, Eoghan ; your father has put me out of 
his bed.” With arms rigid by her sides she swayed, 
dry sobs shaking her body, and her tearless eyes were 
drenched with a piteous look. 


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“ You’ll catch your death of cold standing there,” he 
moaned. 

“ Little does he heed : he put me out of bed.” She 
lurched forward and gripped the iron poster ; took another 
step, her arms out before her as if she were blind. He 
was afraid she was about to fall, and jumping forward 
caught her arm. She lurched heavily against him, so 
that it took all his strength to support her. The tears 
began to well up from what was choking him. He slipped 
his arm round her waist. 

“Is he no’ the terrible man, puttin’ me out o’ bed 
. . . out o’ bed in the deid o’ night ? ” she murmured 
wearily. “ ‘ I wish you were deid an’ in your grave,’ he 
said. What did he say that for ? I was only in Margaret’s. 
He cheated her out o’ the farm ... I canna mind now 
. . . I’m light-headed, Eoghan ... I cried all evening 
wi’ a pain in my head . . . an’ when I told him what 
Marget said he tried to choke me. . . . God forgive 
him. . . ” 

“ Lie down, mother, lie down; ” his voice was hoarse 
with anguish. He put his two arms about her ; but his 
left hand touched her breast, and he hastily withdrew 
it, as if it had been burned. He placed her sitting on 
the bed, and holding her round the shoulders with one 
arm, flung back the bed-clothes with the other. Her 
hot breath, sour with the fumes of alcohol, rose up in 
his face. She fell back sideways across the pillows, 
moaning as if in pain. Solid walls of darkness surged 
up before him; the room was unaccountably stifling. 
He raged with anger against his father, who no doubt 
was asleep as if nothing had happened. He would 
have turned her out like a piece of cork into the storm. 
With face averted he gathered his arm beneath her knees, 
slung her feet into the bed, pulled up the clothes and 
wrapped her in. A ferment of horror was working in 


GILLESPIE 


397 


his brain. His soul was lacerated as with thorns. He 
envied his father’s placidity, his brother’s repose. “ We 
are unsheltered, unsheltered, she and I ” — thought like 
fire devoured his brain. 

“ I thought when we got married he would take me to 
London to see the sights . . — her shining eyes were 
fixed upwards — “ the crown jewels . . . when I was in 
school in Edinburgh some one told me about them . . . 
I canna mind her name . . . He has plenty of money 
... he never took me anywhere ... he kept me slavin’ 
on the farm . . . he put me . . . put . . . out o’ bed;” 
the voice trailed away to a whisper ; the head fell slackly 
to the side ; she began to snore heavily. As Eoghan 
watched her, Topsail Janet crept down from the Coffin 
and came candle in hand to the door. A spasm of rage 
contorted Eoghan’s features. He glared at Topsail 
wolfishly, his pale face betraying the intensest hatred. 
“ Be off ! ” he hissed ; “ be off, you hag ; my mother is ill.” 
He took a threatening step toward her. 

“ I’ll tak’ her up the stair to my bed,” pleaded Topsail, 
big-eyed, open-mouthed. 

With a savage look he picked up the book he had 
been reading and hurled it straight at Topsail. It took 
her between the eyes. Too late she put up her hands in 
defence. With a bound he followed the book and slammed 
the door in her face. 

The sweat oozed in beads upon his forehead as a 
new thought seized him and made him cold and pale 
as a corpse. Had any one seen her coming home ? We 
shall stand now in the harlotry of the town’s mind. He 
groaned, and began pacing up and down the room, tor- 
tured by his ignorance and his impotence. Suddenly he 
stopped and, folding his arms, gazed down at her. 
“ Wrecked . . . wrecked . . . among the breakers,” he 
muttered. 


398 


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“ Let me in, laddie, let me in,” a voice whined at the 
door. Stealthily he went to the door, jerked it open, 
and saw a face looming out of the darkness, with blood 
trickling from one of the eyes like tears. 

“ Be off, I tell you, or I’ll murder you,” he groaned 
out, and again slammed the door in the face of a wounded 
angel. 

He returned to the bed and stood gazing down at his 
mother. Her breathing was gentler, more regular, and 
the hectic flush had crept over her cheeks. A sense of 
her beauty suddenly struck him. He recalled her as he 
had seen her years ago. The picture was imprinted 
vividly on his memory. She wore a linen collar, and 
at a looking-glass, tress by tress, was combing out her 
long hair. In imagination he had fancied her like Mary 
Queen of Scots. Oh, that he could arm the stars or 
fire the town to safeguard her now from prying eyes 
and slanderous tongues ! Since that time he had not 
seen her long black hair on her shoulders. He was 
amazed at the beauty of her face as he pored upon her. 
“ The belle o’ the ball ! the belle o’ the ball ! ’’—the 
phrase rang through his brain. The wildest thoughts 
chased each other through his mind. “ The eye of some 
curse has searched out the reins of our house.” His 
mother’s intelligence, goodness, generosity, tenderness, 
where were they gone ? “ I am sorry for her ; ” and the 

mental whips lashed him. “ Where does that sorrow go ? 
Does it escape me like an unfulfilled wish, and melt 
away in the air ? It does not help her. It did not help 
Iain to-day. What is the use of it all ? God ” — he 
cried aloud — “I am going mad!” He walked to the 
mirror and gazed at his blanched face, staring into his 
eyes as if to probe his very soul. He imagined that 
another face, grey with dry sweat, was looking back at 
him fixedly from the glass. It made him recoil, for in 


GILLESPIE 


399 


another minute he felt this face would make him judge 
her. He went back to the bed and gazed upon the face 
there, which in sleep had assumed an expression of utter 
weariness. It assailed him with great compassion. “ She 
is the author of this divine pity, and I am the author of 
her wretchedness ; I stole to give her the whisky.” And 
then he thought fiercely of his father. “ He is the cause. 
Is there justice anywhere existing on earth ? ” Being 
young he was not sure. “ Oh, what sorrow ! what sorrow 
is in that face ! and Iain’s face — it looked so woeful 
to-day with the bewildered mouth hanging open.” He 
began walking to and fro in the room, a thousand miseries 
besieging his mind ; then ceased abruptly in his walk, and 
stood with limp hanging arms, a prey to despair. “ Does 
God permit him to live to torture her ? ” and the ghastly 
thought came to him — “ P’raps there is no God.” His 
face grew hard; his eyes gleamed like a madman’s. “ If 
not, I cannot permit him to live; ” but the next moment 
his sorrow-smitten heart rose up and condemned the 
thought of his tortured brain. “ Yes ! Yes ! He lives. 
Great God ! what am I to do ? ” He looked down at 
her, apostrophising her : “You are one of the world’s 
suffering creatures.” He saw light and eagerly grasped 
it. “ ‘ God looks not on your sin but on your suffering.’ 
How does it go ? how does it go ? ” He strove desperately 
to recall the words — “ ‘ Neither do I condemn thee ; go 
and sin no more.’ ” Sin no more ; and if to-morrow, and 
to-morrow, and to-morrow she sinned, what must he do ? 
“It is impossible. Can she be fond of vice ? Is she 
debauched ? It cannot be. She is not a low woman 
without education.” This mental excitation maddened 
him. “ If so, better for her and me to be drowned.” He 
grew cold with a great horror, remembering the words 
of the spey-wife. “ It’s me . . . it’s me she meant.” 
His pale, thin face was lit up with an unearthly light ; 


400 


GILLESPIE 


the bluish-grey eyes were on fire. “ Shame or the sea — 
it is the fate of our house — a grave in the sea.” His 
breast heaved and fell rapidly with the stress of emotion. 
His brain began to swim in a vortex. A gloomy look 
came into his face. He was seized with vertigo. The 
light of the lamp began slowly to become blurred. He 
looked about for water, wetting his parched lips with 
his tongue. The cold made him shiver, and falling on 
his knees beside the bed, he buried his face in his hands, 
and remained prostrate before his broken altar. He 
arose muttering, “ He is a vampire ; I could kill him 
now in bed ’ ’ — and going to the door, opened it. Without, 
with her back to the wall, sat Topsail Janet, her head 
sunk forward on her breast. He shook her by the 
shoulder. 

“ Wake up,” he said, “ and go and take care of my 
mother.” He passed wearily up the narrow wooden 
stair to the Coffin and fell heavily into Topsail’s bed. 


CHAPTER V 


A sea-grave for the house of Strang, or poison, or 
fire — that was what the witch said. This was his last 
thought as he fell into a fevered sleep and wandered 
into a horror of dreams. The spey-wife had manacled 
his wrists with a chain of foreign coins, and led him to 
the breast-wall over a sea black as ink, in which there 
were little lights as of sparks from the swords of men 
fighting in the dark. At first he feared the sea was on 
fire, and that he had made the discovery. It would 
blaze up ruddy as blood upon the windows of Brieston 
as once he had seen it when the boats in the Harbour 
were on fire. The fishermen were laughing and talking 
at the corners. How could they jest on the hem of a 
volcanic lake ? Their boats would go up again in a blaze 
and the flames lick up the town. He stared fascinated : 
then wanted to run home and save his mother by escaping 
to the hills. But she would smile and tell him he was a 
foolish boy. “ Mother, mother, it’s on fire ! it will 
set the land on fire ! we’ll be burned ! ” but he could not 
see his mother’s face. Then he learned that the fire did 
not leave the sea. He tempted it, gathering up stones in 
his manacled hands and casting them into the water. 
At each splash a cascade of green flame darted up and 
paled on the dark waters. A new fear assailed him — 
this burning sea was waiting for him. Some night it 
would gather him into the heart of its fire and he would 
be no more. His hands trembled so much that the chain 
of coins rang out like the shaken bridles of horses. He 


402 


GILLESPIE 


glanced over his shoulder for the comfort of the lights 
of the town and encountered the baleful eyes of the 
witch. The wind began to moan in the rigging of the 
boats and made the sea rise in waves of multitudinous 
red. He was fascinated and crept down the slip, drawn 
by an evil magic he could not resist. Why were the 
lamps of the town unlit, and the big green and red bottles 
in the chemist’s shop not shining ? Little dark town, you 
will break my heart ; the wild eyes of fire are watching, 
watching your forlorn sea-front, and will smother me in 
a foam of flame. Those restless eyes were slanting 
like rain; leaping elfinly, sparkling blue like clicking 
swords; shining like the eyes of tigers in the night; 
beady as snakes coiling all around the sea-wall. They 
were strangling infants. Gluck ! Gluck ! how the 
children were sobbing with fear ! Some night they will 
strangle him too; some night when he is sobbing like 
that, and the water is muttering and moaning, and the 
boats are twisting about, and the beaches are scraped 
as with the hoofs of horses, and the slates are rattling 
like pebbles on the roof. 

How the little town huddles back dripping and lonely 
and dark ! How dismal the houses are, all run together 
in one dark mass in the gloom ! How still they are, like 
a man whose heart stops beating when a serpent is about 
to strike at him. 

The wind began to scream in the cordage of the boats, 
and the sign at the “ Ghost ” to rattle like a kettle-drum. 
The water leapt at his feet and fell in chains of flame. 
He was wet with red brine. The sullen roar of the wind 
went over the roofs, and all the madness in the heart 
of the sea rose in a snarl of wind. Spindrift drenched 
him ; the fangs of wild beasts gaped upon him, breathing 
fire. He broke away in terror, stumbled up the slip, 
and saw the town in front of him black and silent as 


GILLESPIE 


403 


the graveyard. The eyes of the spey- witch drove his 
face again to the sea, and he saw all the boats vanish away 
through the dark gale like ghosts beneath a sky ringing 
as with cymbals. He screamed at the spey- wife, gnashed 
his teeth upon her and began to run. He knew why 
he was running — it was to make the most of the murky 
twilight which the sea-fires cast upon the air. The stars, 
he knew, would not come out. They fought, choking 
in an inky sea above. Faster and faster he ran through 
Harbour Street, past the Quay, his heart hammering 
on his ribs. He swerved in a blind little trot to the 
“ Ghost,” and heard its mournful sign. It was all unlit 
and its door closed. Sobbing, he trotted on. What a 
piteous little bleat his feet made on the road as he came 
down to its end where the old Crimea guns stare out to 
sea ! A white sheet of flame was upon the Loch, as if 
a giant hand were raining fire mingled with snow. Fan- 
wise it spread, to vanish in chains of fire into smoky mist. 
The strangled stars of heaven dropped in great clots of 
blood, and to his horror he saw the falling stars burst 
in the midst of the chains of fire and devour the sea, 
licking it up in smokeless heat. All the cold dead, all 
the friendless who had found in the salt water their 
ultimate refuge — some with babies in their arms — were 
returning through the shallowing gulfs like homing birds 
to the limits of the land, their weary eyes and sorrow- 
laden faces upturned piteously in hope of rest from the 
tossing deep. Iain led the way, his mouth pitifully open 
and wet with salt. The mangled breasts of women were 
hidden with their hair, and they, remembering the old, 
happy years on land, held up their babes in tears, arising 
through the thinning foam pale as snow, cold as dew ; 
but with lips so pure from their long cleansing sepulchre 
that naught might come from them but beseechings 
and blessings and holy songs. He understood now the 


404 


GILLESPIE 


old anguish-note and keening of the sea. It had been 
loaded with all their pain and grief, their weariness of 
death and the fathomless sighs of those outcasts from 
light and the mould — a vast, pale army who have lain 
unburied and sleepless, stricken with dreams of hearth 
and cot and home. In the cold fountains of the bitter 
sea their faces have been so marred with scalding tears 
that the brine of the oceans cannot cleanse the furrows 
of their grief. Up from the glens and hollows where the 
sea was all burned they trooped, and the noise of their 
feet was as the rushing of many waters through the skies, 
and their eyelids glowed upon the land with hunger. 
With eager feet they passed on through the narrow 
mouth of the steep place of the ocean-bed, and climbed 
up the cliffs to the shore. He could not help them for 
his manacled hands; but they needed no help. He 
followed them up the road and saw them go as dark, 
fluttering shadows on the windy, vacant streets. A 
charred town stood around wrecked by the stars. The 
doors were desolate, the lintels fallen, the roofs broken; 
and this was a misery above all the miseries which they 
had suffered in the sea ; and such a wailing broke forth as 
made the darkness quiver like a curtain, and the fire- 
blackened walls rock and fling the echoes shrilling into 
the hollows of the dried-up sea, where they rumbled 
through the gorges and mingled with the dry whistle 
of the wind in the eye-sockets of the skulls of murderers 
who would never, never rise. He heard the soft passage 
of the resurrected as they prowled, weeping. Full of the 
memory of things of old, they touched the empty door- 
ways and charred walls as if with healing fingers ; and 
ever their muffled cry went hollow through the gloom. 
At this unassuaged grief came one stately in white, with 
inviolable eyes that had looked upon Christ in pure love. 
“ Come,” she cried ; “ you have suffered for your children’s 


GILLESPIE 


405 


sake or for mother or sister or brother. Christ’s com- 
passion knows and His love understands all. He will 
pardon those who have loved much. He will forgive 
Morag Strang too. He knows her to be gentle and 
tender and to have suffered. You were all worthy that 
He should die for you. His kingdom is prepared at 
the end of the world and He has raised you from the 
sea.” And as the Magdalene spoke all their unlit life 
flamed again in their parched veins. She stooped and 
touched each one gently as she passed, naming a name 
to each of olden, secret love that moved them deeply — 
the name of their dreams, the name which had haunted 
and tortured them with its fragrance in the hold of 
the deep. She moved among them, a bridal woman of 
joy, with her evangel. And then she commanded that 
each return to the bed of the vanished sea and take 
therefrom the mangled bodies of dissolute men, of 
murderers and suicides and harlots, and bring them to 
rest in the graves of those by whom they were beloved, 
the son by the mother, the wife by the husband. In the 
splendour of her face they turned back, moving slowly, 
unwilling to leave her glorious eyes. They moved like 
a sightless army down the silent streets to the end of 
the road, where he came and sat again, and saw them go 
down into the glens and hollows of the bowels of the 
earth, gleaning the grey bones of the maimed, and taking 
them up to the red earth in the west. There flowers 
sprang up, tall, pale lilies, Madonna-wise, with a new 
tender light which filled the world. As the Magdalene 
went by she touched him on the shoulder and said to 
him, with a face so piteous that it quenched the shining 
of its glory : “ Your hands are bound ; you are no longer 
free. Sorrow and madness will come upon you for one 
that shall be a sinner too, and we shall gather up your 
broken body.” She bowed her head as to Fate, and he 


406 


GILLESPIE 


felt her tears fall upon his upturned face. He held up 
his chained wrists to her. “It is not for me to unbind 
you,” and she passed away as a shadow upon the wall 
of gloom. Mournfully he sat gazing into the ravine 
where the ocean waters had flowed, and saw a woman, 
the last of the pale army, come up over the rocks with 
her eyes intent upon the derelict walls of the “ Ghost.” 
The face was full of inexpressible sorrow ; her eyes were 
deep wells of pain. It was his mother, tottering beneath 
a dead body which she had rescued from the bed of the 
sea. As she came upon the road with the body gathered 
up in her arms he saw that its face was Iain’s. 

“ Mother ! mother ! ” he screamed, leaping towards 
her. 

He found himself in the midst of Topsail Janet’s room. 
His knees gave way and he sank down upon the floor. 
The horror of the dream mingled with that of the hours 
he had spent with his mother rushed upon him, intensified 
by the cold, silent, impassioned dawn. 


CHAPTER VI 


Mr. Colin Kennedy, A.M., the parochial school- 
master, one of the last of his race, was shrunken, tottering, 
white-haired, with the eyes of an aged man, dim and 
waiting. In the school-house set in a garden of trees 
he was engaged upon A Booh of the Dead , in which no 
names were to appear. That was matter for history 
proper, biography or autobiography. It would be an 
epic of the obscure dead, whose faded hands he saw 
upon the living, whose ghosts haunted all the centuries, 
whose feet guided us, and the eloquence of whose dust 
blossomed anew upon our lips. This eternal alchemy of 
the vanished wrought anew in the workshop of the world. 
He saw in procession, as well as Caesar and Hannibal, 
Plato and Demosthenes, Sophocles and Virgil, Paul 
and Mahomet, Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci, 
Shakespeare and Beethoven, a phantasmal crowd — some 
scanning the stars, some pounding in a mortar, some 
telling their wounds, others peering at the compass on 
pitch-black nights ; others, again, the mistresses of kings, 
dancing in palaces — men and women, fierce and tender, 
brooding and plotting, mangled and torn; and over 
all the wind of the Great Spirit whirling the chaff into 
chaos, and leaving the grain behind to spring up anew 
in the living generations. He had finished Chapter V, 
“ The Fortuitous in Life,” and was begun on Chapter 
VI, “ The Note on Destiny — a Hidden Factor.” He 
saw the unknown human legions rise up on the earth 
and sink again into her breast. “ What dust ! what 

407 


408 


GILLESPIE 


multitudinous dust ! ” he would murmur ; and the 
mournful tenure of life, its indefinable yearning, its 
fierce ambitions, its baulked endeavours, would rise up 
before him like a hill of sorrow, and the vague flight 
of the clouds of mortality would sweep before his eyes, 
drifting into the undisco verable leagues of eternal silence. 
In the peace of his garden beneath the stars he would 
gaze down on the nestling town, its grey huddle of roofs 
and the shadow-fleet all enfolded beneath the wings of 
the dusk; and the voices and rumour of men would 
come up in his ears like small shot peppering something 
brittle. He imagined the people beneath projected on 
the face of the sky as if from a gigantic magic -lantern. 
The figures capered grotesquely upon the clouds, their 
antic gestures inspired and controlled by some passionless 
conjurer. “ Umbra sumus ,” he would murmur sadly, 
u my book will never be finished; ” and the relentless 
clock, the unerring pilot of Time, would solemnly boom 
out on the hill that another hour had passed away into 
eternity. 

He was of that sort of men who have a look of home 
in their faces; from whom Eoghan in the depth of his 
distress sought comfort and advice. Eoghan told him 
all, including what was the innermost fear of his being : 
“ I can’t bear it, Mr. Kennedy ; the whispers of the town 
will stab me; their eyes will burn me; they will cough 
at me behind their hands as I go by.” 

The schoolmaster made no sign that he disapproved 
this blatant egoism of youth, or was horrified by its 
moral cowardice. 

“ It takes one half of our life,” he said, “ to know 
how to live the other half. You have yet to learn. 
You are too imaginative, too highly-strung ” — he smiled 
gently ; “ too — thin-skinned. Those who were great were 
undeterred ”— he lapsed into dreams of his book — “ they 


GILLESPIE 


409 


held far-off communion with the goal, and let the gnats 
sting them. They did not imagine the slander of others. 
Ignore the scoff and the jeer. Do not writhe like a 
trampled worm. Watch over her tenderly; guard her 
gently; lead her by love. Cowards stand around and 
scoff ; but love is at the foot of the Cross, watching in 
silence. Do not rage or blaspheme. In suffering silence 
we best come to our haven. The birds of evening do 
not sing when flying to their nests. This is Sunday. 
Go to-day in silence to God and pray to Him. You 
know that when scholars exhaust their learning the poor 
man turns to the Bible.” He cast a sorrowful glance 
at Eoghan, as if reading his vacillating character. 

“ I can’t heal myself with such philosophy,” cried 
Eoghan, 4 4 when I walk through the streets to-morrow.” 

“ Do not carry such thoughts of shame with you. 
Brooding increases misery with compound interest. Put 
it in the fire and burn it. It is smoke.” 

“ It is I who bum — all last night.” 

“ You are stricken ” — he laid his thin, shaky hand on 
Eoghan’s shoulder — “ and being young you are in despair. 
You will not believe if I tell you that suffering is good. 
We are all torches lit to that wind; at least the best of 
us. Look at Marshall the baker. He never paid a fee 
to Maclean all his life; he’s seventy, and rich as a Jew. 
His daughters are well married and bearing healthy 
children. His sons have good positions. I taught them 
all. They were sly and some of them rogues; but they 
flourish” — the old man spread out his fine, fragile hands 
as if blessing him — “ Eoghan, my son, Marshall is to 
be pitied. God is letting him drift.” 

“ Maybe,” answered Eoghan, not daring to gaze at 
the visionary face of the old man ; “ but my wound is 
raw.” 

He touched Eoghan delicately on the shoulder, stooping 


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GILLESPIE 


towards him. “ Though you were in many ways a clever 
scholar I caned you.” He smiled fondly at Eoghan. “ It 
was fine to thrash you because you were clever. The 
cane was a trowel. I was laying manhood on you at 
every stroke. This sorrow of yours is the first touch of 
God’s trowel” — he peered at Eoghan’s face — “if you 
have not brought this trouble on yourself. Many a 
cross is a cross of folly.” The words appeared to rise 
up from a deep well of sorrow. “ If the trouble is not 
of your own making, fear nothing. The human heart 
is proof against all. When the worst comes to the worst 
the soul sits within at the storm-centre looking out in 
profound calm. We fear life too much. Come,” he 
added in a brisker tone, “ together we’ll go to church 
for knowledge and wisdom. There are the bells” — and 
seeing the hesitant look on Eoghan’s face — “It is Maurice 
from Ardmarkie who is preaching to-day. He is a good 
man. You are tired, my son,” he ended with infinite 
tact ; “ come and rest in the house of God.” 

“ I never go to church ; I don’t see the use of it.” 

“ Perhaps you will to-day. Religion is never an 
ecstasy, a hope, or a promise to those whose lives run 
smoothly.” 

Reluctantly and shamefacedly Eoghan accompanied 
him down the garden path, dreading the encounter with 
the church-goers. Harbour Street was populous with 
men and women in black. The world in that hour 
seemed to have no poor, no sick, no afflicted. The old 
folk wore those indefatigable clothes which would never 
be replaced. On the brae they met Maclean, who shook 
hands with the schoolmaster and nodded to Eoghan. 

“ For church, doctor ? ” asked Mr. Kennedy. 

“ Ay ! the last shot in the locker.” 

Eoghan was startled. Did Maclean know anything ? 
What did he mean by referring to church as the last 


GILLESPIE 


411 


resort ? The blood rushed to his head ; his knees began to 
tremble. He stole a glance at the doctor; but he was 
looking unconcernedly ahead as he talked to Mr. Kennedy. 
“ Maurice is a pious man and a good preacher. I hope 
he left a dram for Stuart in Ardmarkie Manse.” His 
deep, hearty laugh rang with exquisite comfort to Eoghan’s 
heart. If the doctor knew anything he would not have 
spoken about a dram in that careless fashion. Eoghan 
entered the church with a sense of relief. 

He was startled when the preacher gave out the text. 
His subject was the Magdalene. “ ‘ Seest thou this 
woman ? ’ This poor pariah,” the preacher went on, 
“ was nameless. Haunting the nests of vice and 
walking the mean streets of Jerusalem, would she desire 
a name ? Was not her name reft from her, as convicts 
to-day have their names taken from them and are given 
a number instead ? But once pardoned she will forsake 
her old haunts, she will establish that which is dear to 
every woman’s heart, a home, and take her name again, 
the name of childhood, which came blowing its fragrance 
and its innocence across the weary years.” The preacher’s 
earnest voice, in which was a hint of tears, seemed to 
Eoghan to be sobbing through the building. He sat 
spell-bound. “ The Pharisees and wolves who had 
preyed upon her would sneer now, and hint and whisper 
—Eoghan felt as if a cord were being tightened about his 
heart, and breathed with difficulty—* but repentant 
sorrow is proof against contumely. The storms of life 
and its passion have broken her, and only one thing 
on earth can mend her. The white flower of chivalry 
will not strike a fallen one. Mercy sees only the suffering 
heart, and mercy makes self-righteousness blush for itself. 
Ah, the nameless fragrance of that mercy ! She dares 
wipe His feet, dares let herself dwell on the thought of 
His love. She has found her haven from the ruthlessness 


412 


GILLESPIE 


of the world. A memory is left to her that will never 
perish, that will never recur to her without evoking 
scorching tears. This woman makes us know what 
unabashed faith is, what is the love that knows neither 
shame, suspicion, nor fear.” Eoghan half rose to his 
feet, his eyes riveted on the transfigured face of the 
preacher. A hand gently drew him back. “ In her we 
see the tenderness and devotion that can transform a 
woman who has returned from the doors of hell to the 
gates of heaven. In her we see the Man of Sorrows 
both as the Star and the Haven, the giver of noble 
thoughts, the gladness of the future, the restorer of what 
is broken, the endower of the heart with fortitude to 
rise after defeat and wear out the most relentless foe. 
One hour with Him wipes out all — past sorrows, past 
brooding, past despair. These are now so many bonds 
by which the soul is tied to its Redeemer.” Eoghan 
thought the burning eyes of the preacher were riveted 
on his face. “The nails of your cross He plucks out, and 
they are driven into His own hands and feet.” A mist 
swam before Eoghan’s face; the blood was drumming 
in his ears. He had lost some of the golden words from 
the pulpit. “ If you cannot help such, leave them alone 
at least. Don’t play the part of the Pharisee with your 
jibes and your jeers. . . . Once she was nameless. The 
angels now know her name, the new name by which her 
holy love was called in that fearless day when, penetrating 
to the home of the Pharisee, she, with the hair of her head, 
dried her own scalding tears, which had fallen upon those 
feet soon to be doomed to the nails by those who were 
her own tormenters.” 

A deep silence bound the congregation as the preacher 
ended. For a moment Eoghan felt an insane desire to 
burst into laughter. His mouth and jaws were working 
convulsively in an effort to repress the welling sobs. 


GILLESPIE 


413 


“ Let us pray ” — clear like a bell the words rang out. 
Eoghan dropped down on his knees, the only kneeling 
figure in the church, and buried his head in his arms. 

“ Thou who watchest over the fall of a sparrow and 
numberest the hairs of our head art the unceasing guardian 
of the children of men. Thou hast given us the highest 
pledge possible of Thy love in the death of Jesus Christ. 
Wilt Thou not along with Him freely give unto us all 
things ? This, 0 God of Mercy, is our simple faith. 
We need this trust. We have but a brief day, lightened 
a little by happiness, broken by grief, burdened with 
care, soiled by sin. We are but shadows upon the back- 
ground of eternity. Children we are, groping and stumbling 
till our day decline and wearily we seek our rest. Shine 
upon our vicissitudes, 0 Thou infinite strength; break, 
break upon our hazardous career, 0 Thou immortal 
light. When a deeper yearning falls upon us for the good, 
the true, the lovely, the things of excellent report, let 
naught of mischance or evil quench the God within us 
seeking out the God that is Thee. And when all is done 
— a little well, perhaps, by Thy grace, and much that is 
feeble, wayward, and ill — may we also, leaning upon Thy 
compassion which knows, Thy love which understands 
all, be brave to say, c Lord, Thou knowest all things ; 
Thou knowest that I love Thee, 0 Jesus Christ, my 
Lord.’ ” 

Involuntarily the compelling Amen rang out on 
Eoghan’s lips. Maclean glanced at him, and began 
tugging fiercely at his moustache. Eoghan rose off his 
knees, chastened, uplifted, redeemed. The wings of the 
cherubim were adrift in the church. 

“ A humane prayer,” Maclean whispered, staring at 
the minister. With a swelling heart of gratitude Eoghan 
also looked at the man, who somehow he felt had left 
him in the hollow of God s hand. The preacher announced 


414 GILLESPIE 

the hundred and third psalm, and slowly read through 
the verses to be sung. 

“ ‘ He will not chide continually.’ ” The words lingered, 
charged with a spirit of redemption. They began 
singing : 

“ Such pity as a father hath 
Unto his children dear.’ 1 

The doctor was singing in a tuneless, rasping voice — 
singing as if all his soul were coming up into his mouth, 
and all the people with mighty fervency. “ Kilmarnock ” 
rolled and swelled in waves of triumphant sound. Angels 
were ascending and descending on a ladder of light. 
“ They are grasping the hem of Christ’s garment. God 
is here ! God is here ! ” Eoghan wanted to cry it aloud : 

“ Like pity shows the Lord to such.’ ? 

His bosom was heaving and falling with emotion ; he 
could sing no more for choking sobs; the tears freely 
ran down his cheeks. 

He walked down the street without fear or a sense of 
shame. At the foot of the brae Maclean abruptly 
addressed Mr. Kennedy : 

“ Damn it, Kennedy, Maurice has done me good the 
day. I’ll ask the Laird to send him a brace of pheasants.” 

“ Come and see me to-night, Eoghan,” said Mr. 
Kennedy. 

“ Thank you, sir ; ” they shook hands — rather linger- 
ingly Maclean thought — and the two men watched him 
cross the Square. 

“ We’ll make the lad a minister,” said Maclean. 

The schoolmaster gave him no answer. 

In the presence of his father Eoghan dared not ask 
Topsail Janet for news of his mother, who was not at 
dinner. Gillespie asked his son if he had been to church. 
With the schoolmaster and the doctor ! Imphm ! Trade 


GILLESPIE 


415 


was surely bad when Maclean was there. And was the 
Laird present ? Gillespie wanted to know if the Laird, 
with whom he had business, was at home. The collector- 
ship of harbour and passenger dues at the Pier was about 
to become vacant. The present man, Gillespie had wormed 
out of the factor, was paying in rent one hundred pounds 
per annum. The Laird had no notion of what the busi- 
ness was worth. The steamship dues alone paid this 
rent; the passenger dues — which in the summer were 
considerable — stood a clear profit, and must run to 
hundreds of pounds. Gillespie meant privately to make 
an offer to the Laird over the present man’s head of 
one hundred and twenty pounds per annum, and use his 
son as a catspaw. He was a dwaibly, fushionless body, 
good enough at books, but useless for hard work. Such 
a post the Laird must see would be the very thing for 
his son. This would knock the colleging scheme of that 
old rogue the schoolmaster on the head, and at the same 
time bring in a handsome income. 

“ Ye didna see the Laird, did ye no’ ? Maybe noo ye 
werena keekin’.” 

“ I wasn’t,” answered Eoghan doggedly ; “ I was looking 
at the minister.” 

“ That’ll please Stuart,” Gillespie said merrily. 

“ It wasn’t Mr. Stuart.” 

“ An’ who was it ? ” Gillespie was picking his teeth 
with a fork, and spoke absently. 

“ It was Mr. Maurice from Ardmarkie.” 

“ Eh ! who ! Mr. Maurice ? Ane o’ the hallelujah 
boys.” 

His father’s nonchalant, disinterested air had been 
irritating Eoghan, and now a wave of anger surged over 
him at the indecent libel. Instantaneously his mind 
was projected forward and he saw what would happen — 
his own blazing face and his father’s surprise. Even as 


416 


GILLESPIE 


he jumped to his feet he saw his action take being to 
meet what his imagination had already forecast. He 
snatched up a dinner spoon. 

“ Another word against Mr. Maurice,” he yelled, 
“and” — fear for an instant gripped his throat; he 

overleapt it with fierce joy — “ and I’ll brain you ” 

He swung his arm back, and brought the spoon crashing 
down on the table. His legs quivered so much that 
he was scarcely able to push back his chair. He rocked 
giddily out of the kitchen and, bursting into his own room, 
locked the door and flung his trembling form on the 
bed, where he lay face down, biting the clothes with his 
teeth. Hour after hour passed. He became afraid of 
his father, and determined to leave the house. Fear 
passed into defiance; defiance into cynicism. As he lay 
brooding, the words of the preacher came back to him 
without any conscious effort to recall them; they stole 
into his soul with solace and balm. Again he heard 
the gracious prayer, and felt how a vision of angels had 
swept through the church. He arose and, searching 
for his Bible, passed out of his room into the kitchen. 
It was empty. Topsail Janet was aloft in the Coffin, 
scrutinising the face of Jesus in the picture on the wall. 
Gillespie was gone in search of the Laird’s factor. Eoghan 
passed through the kitchen to his mother’s room and saw 
her dark form on the bed. 

“ Is that you, mother ? ” 

He heard a deep sigh : “ Where have ye been all day, 
Eoghan? ” 

“ At church.” 

There was silence. Again she sighed deeply. 

“Are you not feeling well?” His voice betrayed 
anxiety. 

“ Oh, I’m sick ! sick ! ” she answered, “ sick of my 
life ; oh, Eoghan, my temples are throbbing like to burst ! ” 


GILLESPIE 


417 


He knew that if he did not say it now his courage 
would ooze away, and his heart began to beat rapidly. 

“ Mother ” — he spoke in a low voice — “ I had a strange 
dream last night about you ” 

“ What was it, Eoghan ? ” she asked, in a faint, listless 
tone. 

“ I saw you and myself and Mary Magdalene ” 

An exclamation of horror from the bed interrupted 
him. 

“ — and Mr. Maurice was preaching to-day about 
Mary Magdalene.” 

“ It’s no’ canny, Eoghan, your dream.” She was half 
sitting up in bed now, gazing large-eyed at her son. 

“ There’s something strange about it, mother.” His 
face was full of gloom and his voice broken as he said : 
“ Mother, I would like to read about Mary Magdalene 
to you.” 

“ Ay,” she answered, “ it’s Sabbath. I haven’t read 
the Bible since I left Lonend. You’ll need a light, 
Eoghan.” 

He returned to the kitchen, found a lamp on the 
mantelpiece, and carried it into the bedroom. His 
mother was sitting up in bed. He lingered over the 
lamp, afraid now to begin. The untrimmed wick was 
smoking. He opened the Bible, rustling the leaves 
loudly. 

“ Can’t ye find the place, Eoghan ? I don’t remember 
where it is.” 

“ It’s in Luke,” he muttered; “ I forget the chapter.” 

At that moment his eye lighted on the passage. He 
tried to begin, but the words would not come. He 
wetted his lips with his tongue. 

“ I’ve found the place,” he said. 

“Will you give me a drink of water, Eoghan ? ” 

Again he passed into the kitchen, from which he heard 

E E 


418 


GILLESPIE 


his mother’s weary sigh. She took the glass from him 
with shaking hand. He bent his head over the Bible till 
she drank. When the gurgling sounds ceased, he glanced 
up and saw her sitting, tumbler in hand, her head drooping 
like one who is a prey to dejection, her eyes fixed on the 
coverlet. She seemed to have forgotten him. In a 
strained voice he began to read : 

44 ‘And one of the Pharisees desired Him that He would 
eat with him .’ ” 

44 What’s that you’re saying, Eoghan ? ” 

He looked up and saw her bewildered eyes upon him. 

“ I’m reading about Mary Magdalene.” 

“ Mary Magdalene ! ” The bewilderment of her eyes 
was now in her voice. 

A strangling tightness in his chest prevented him from 
continuing. 

4 4 Eoghan” — her querulous voice seemed to come from 
an infinite distance — 44 will you tell Janet I want to speak 
to her ? ” 

44 Oh, mother ! mother ! let me read the Bible first ” 
— he was unconscious that he screamed the words — 44 it 
did me so much good to-day.” 

44 Ay ! ay ! ” she repeated mechanically, 44 read the 
Bible; this is the Sabbath day.” 

44 ‘And, behold, a woman in the city , which was a sinner, 
when she knew that Jesus sat at meat in the Pharisee's 
house, brought an alabaster box of ointment ” — his 
throat was bursting. It cost an immense effort to 
articulate the words. His mother had fallen back on 
the bed ; her eyes were fixed upward with a glassy stare 
on the ceiling — 4 4 4 and stood at His feet behind Him weep- 
ing, and began to wash His feet with tears, and did wipe 
them with the hairs of her head, and kissed His feet, and 
anointed them with the ointment ’ ” Emotion over- 

came him. The lines were all blurred. He blinked 


GILLESPIE 


419 


rapidly and the print swam up clear again, and he went 
on reading : Now when the Pharisee which had hidden 

Him saw it, he spake within himself, saying, This man, 
if he were a prophet, would have known who and what 
manner of woman this is that toucheth Him : for she is 
a sinner .’ ” 

He glanced at his mother ; her eyes were closed. 

“ Mother, are you listening ? 5 5 

“God peety me!” There was a distracted look on 
her face which terrified him. He jumped to his feet 
and the Bible fell to the floor. 

“ Mother ! mother ! what’s wrong wi’ ye ? ” 

Her head swayed to and fro on the pillow; a low, 
moaning sound escaped her lips. 

“ Oh, Eoghan ! Eoghan ! my temples are throbbing : 
my head’s burstin’. Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! it’s on fire ! 
Will ye no’ tell Janet to come ? ” 

He ran into the kitchen. 

“ Janet ! Janet ! ” he yelled, “ mother’s ill ; come 
quick ! ” He heard Topsail moving on the stair and ran 
back to the room. His mother was again sitting up in 
bed, the light of fever in her eyes, and scarlet patches on 
her cheeks. Topsail came in panting. 

“ Away, you,” she commanded in a firm voice, “ away 
an’ tek’ a breath o’ fresh air. I ken what to do.” 

He felt a sudden sense of relief at Topsail’s quiet 
confidence and mastery, and hurriedly left the room. 
On the stairhead he stood pondering. How easily the 
minister had that day affected him, and how futile had 
been his own effort to bring his mother to the Ultimate 
Refuge of men from the whips of existence. He remem- 
bered his Bible, and hurried back to pick it up. As he 
gained the threshold of the bedroom he saw Topsail 
Janet standing with her back to him, and the whisky 
bottle which himself had bought in her left hand. His 


420 GILLESPIE 

mother was drinking. He heard the tumbler clink 
against her teeth. 

“ There noo; that’ll do ye good.” 

Eoghan felt suddenly whipped, defeated, a spy. The 
devouring eagerness with which his mother drank, 
pressing the tumbler with both hands to her chattering 
mouth, revolted him. He crept backwards and stole 
through the kitchen; and in the darkness of his own 
room became a prey to misery. The picture of his mother 
sitting up dishevelled in bed ran before his eyes in 
lines of fire upon the darkness. He closed his eyes to 
banish it; but it would not leave him. He went about 
groping for his cap, seeing his mother’s haunting face 
before him. He put out his hands in front of him as 
he went down the stair. “ Good God ! Good God ! ” 
he kept muttering. “ Good God ! what’s to become o’ 
us now ? ” and he passed out into the night. 


CHAPTER VII 


A vast, jet-black cloud trailed upon the sea, with a 
clear white rift in its eastward portion wedged in between 
sea and sky. The waves ran fiercely beneath this cloud. 
It was an ominous sight to the crew of the Sudden Jerk, 
which was making bad weather of it with Iain Strang 
at the wheel. A small, lumpy man in sou’ -wester and 
oilskins was forward, peering over the windward gunwale 
at a marly sky which glared and bled as with wounds. 
The engineer, huddled against the engine-room casing, 
was patching a hole in the bottom of the bowl of an old 
clay with a piece of cod-skin. He was doing this to keep 
a grip of his nerve. He had just shouted to Iain, “ Let 
her away for Ardrossan ; there’s no’ a bucketful o’ coal 
in the bunkers.” From where he sat the wind appeared 
to be pinning Iain to the large wooden wheel. 

After every flash of spindrift heads jerked up over 
the Ardrossan breakwater to watch a little steamer with 
a wisp of an ochreish funnel sheer through the spume, 
loom out of it, and vanish again in a cloud like the phan- 
tasmagoria of a dream. Inch by inch she lunged nearer, 
warring with the waste. They saw her peaked black 
nose rise and plunge like a thing in agony; then she 
wriggled down into the trough and rolled to her gunwales. 
They heard the soggy clank, clink of her wearied engines 
fitfully through the screaming of the wind and the roar 
of the water — clattering and wheezing, and tearing 
herself in every swipe of the cross seas. The harbour 
master was dancing on the breakwater, yelling through 

421 


422 


GILLESPIE 


a speaking-trumpet and waving off the labouring steamer. 
It blew hard from the sou’ -east; the sky was changing 
its appearance every few minutes; it was impossible to 
open the dock gates in face of the tremendous seas. 

“ There’s nothing for it but to run,” Iain yelled over 
his shoulders, and heaved himself upon the wheel. 

The engineer rose and went below to nurse his coal. 
“ The harbour mud ’ill get washed off the flukes the 
night,” he muttered, and flung the old clay into the 
heart of a grey comber. 

They ran before the gale, sweeping past a tramp steamer 
and a large blue-funnelled liner hove to. They dared 
not broach her now. The stern lay low on the water, 
and the frightsome following twin seas curled up on either 
hand as high as the funnel, threatening momentarily to 
swoop upon the stern. It was necessary to steam her 
hardest to out-race that pursuing wall of water. A 
slackness at the wheel, the variation of a foot, and the 
Sudden Jerk would sink like a stone. Grey sheets of 
spindrift rose off the water and fell like sleet across 
the decks. To port, to starboard, and ahead nothing was 
visible but leagues of spindrift, out of which suddenly 
loomed phantom-like a lonely grey ship-of-war, smoking 
through the seas, the black snout of a long gun pointing 
through the spray. She had a faded, drenched appear- 
ance, yet looked fierce as the sea she warred with, and 
hungry against the naked sky-line as war itself. Her 
funnels belched flame. 

“ Rule, Britannia! ” yelled the engineer; “ wish we’d 
a ton o’ your steam-coal.” 

High off the north end of Arran, where the wind 
shrilled down the glens with a tormented sound, they 
met the cross seas of the two channels. 

“ There’s nothing for it but Brieston Harbour,” yelled 
Iain. 


GILLESPIE 


423 


“ By hedges, it’s blowin’ ! ” the engineer answered, 
roaring into the wall of wind, with the words flung back 
in his teeth. There was a sob of fear in his voice. He 
swung round the ventilator. 

“ Here’s a Goad Almighty sea cornin’,” screamed the 
man at the wheel with Iain. A ghostly grey-back swooped 
up and shouldered aboard forward ; the ventilator melted 
away beneath the engineer’s hand, and he recovered 
breath sitting in a river of water in the corner made 
by the engine-room casing and the foot of the bridge. 
The bridge ladder was gone. She was half filled forward. 

“ Let it go by the gangway,” shouted Iain. 

The lumpy man in oilskins crawled aft and began 
wrestling with the gangway door, which refused to yield. 
Iain swung himself over the bridge railing and dropped 
on the slanting deck. He crawled aft, disappeared down 
the engine-room, to reappear with a large hammer. 
Gauging her plunge, he staggered forward. Crash ! 
crash ! came the hammer-head ; the gangway door swung 
open ; the torrent of salt water hissed out. Iain, caught 
in the suction, saved himself by dropping the hammer 
and clutching a stanchion. The Sudden Jerk heaved 
up, relieved from the weight of water, and righted herself. 
The gangway door swung to and caught Iain on the 
leg. It snapped like matchwood. He fell, pinned as 
in a vice. The lumpy man yelled on the engineer. 
Together they extricated Iain, whose face was drawn with 
pain, and bore him to shelter in the lee of the casing 
beneath the bridge. 

From where he lay he instructed them to work the 
Sudden Jerk into the Loch, hugging the east shore. 
The wind was howling from end to end of the Loch at 
the same time, and the whole body of the storm leapt in 
dense black squalls. Lightning flickered and darted 
among the clouds bastioned on the south-east horizon. 


424 


GILLESPIE 


Gillespie was about to be punished for his greed. 
The coal was done. They burned the platform of the 
hold and fired her with herring boxes. The steam-gauge 
was emptying with ominous rapidity. With a list to 
port she was now swept by the seas clean as a table. 
Her head broached away constantly. She began to 
wallow. The engineer came up for the last time from 
the bowels of the ship. His teeth clicked as he tried to 
articulate the words. 

“ The fire’s — oot ” He turned from the sick son 

and began to curse the father. “ No’ — even a rag — o’ a 

sail ” Gillespie had refused to supply them with a 

mizzen. He was not the man to provide both sail and 
steam. 

The dark fell. She drove now, beam on, shaking 
under every impact of the solid water. 

The engineer peered into the engine-room and heard 
water washing on the plates. 

“ It’s no’ a steamer,” he muttered, “ it’s a mill ; she’s 
chokin’ ; ” he was on the verge of madness through terror. 

Slowly she sagged towards an iron coast. The lumpy 
man crawled out of the forecastle, and came aft hand over 
fist along the starboard gunwale. 

The engineer eyed him vaguely. 

“ Whaur’s the cook ? ” he asked. 

“ He’s forrut, greetin’.” 

The deck-hand, dressed in his best clothes and wearing 
a collar and tie, spoke apologetically : 

“ I’m no’ goin’ to be picked up in dongarees.” 

“ Dressed for your funeral, by hedges,” the engineer 
laughed hysterically. 

“ Let go — the anchor — it may — hold,” Iain, dazed 
with pain, was whispering. No one paid him any attention. 
He lay listening to the boom along the shore mingling 
with the steady scream of the wind. 


GILLESPIE 


425 


“ Another ton o’ coal an’ we’d have made the Hair- 
bour ; ” the engineer’s words were a roar of despair. A 
small sickly moon, hoar- white, sheered out of the clouds. 

Iain opened his eyes. 

“ She was right — the spey-wife,” he muttered; “it’s 
cornin’ ; it’s no’ the wee fellow after all — thank God — 
one of you will find the other.” His face became in- 
expressibly sad. His mouth was open, miserable, hanging 
loosely, dejected. For a moment he heard a triumphing 
scream in the rush of the wind, felt the drunken swaying 
of the ship as if she were being butted by an enormous 
ram; then a great vacancy stretched away before his 
eyes. He was oppressed by an intolerable heartache 
which divorced all sorrow, pain, and desire. There was 
nothing left but infinite vacancy stretching away far 
beyond the roaring of the sea, and the hills, the moor 
and the hoar-white moon. With incredible swiftness 
an age of a thousand years out of a remote past rolled 
up before him, and he felt himself swimming into this vast 
peace of eternity. He opened his eyes to see if the world 
were real, and across the gunwale saw through a cleft 
on the foreland in the scud of the moon the tall, harled 
gables of the pallid “ Ghost ” as of a thing he had never 
beheld before. The next moment the Sudden Jerk 
crashed and shivered through her length; there was a 
grinding, ripping, tearing sound; a rending of wood and 
iron that was swallowed up as an enormous sea rose 
and broke over her stern. A sickening sensation stole 
over Iain. He closed his eyes, as he felt himself being 
lifted and torn away into darkness. . . . 

Her nose rose slowly in the air, and a huge sea hurled 
her forward. There was a loud explosion, as she burst 
amidships. The after part vanished; the water boiled 
where it disappeared ; then broke into its turbulent race 
shoreward. 


426 


GILLESPIE 


Nothing but the stem of a broken ship and the water 
sculptured gigantically by the gale to tell that brave 
lives had been cast away through the insensate greed 
of a man. 

Behind the window in the “ Ghost,” which Iain’s 
dazed eyes had glimpsed as he passed away from it for 
ever, sat two persons : old Mr. Strang on a hard wooden 
chair placed against the great four-poster bed tented 
with red curtains, in which generations had been born 
and died. Opposite was the big fire-place with white- 
washed jambs. Between the fire-place and the dresser 
in a corner was a cushioned box, on which Eoghan sat. 
The racks of the dresser were full of willow-pattern plates 
and, beneath, old punch-bowls lying on their sides. A 
long shelf above the fire-place was sacred with relics — 
some of them far-fetched articles brought home by the 
old man’s brother, who had made many foreign voyages 
and was buried in an unknown place abroad; the long- 
necked champagne bottle which had been opened at 
Mr. Strang’s wedding ; a crystal christening bowl. These 
were silent orisons in glass; things of eld on which a 
moss of affection grew ; monuments of old happiness and 
sorrow. Over them all the hundred-year- old wag-at- 
the-wa’ ticked still in tune and time, and in a corner 
by the meal-barrel was a mouldered spinning-wheel, 
which the hands of many women now dead had used. It 
was a room heavy with the odour of antiquity, and to 
Eoghan transforming what had been the reality of the 
past into a romance in the present, haunting him with 
a certain wistfulness, a tender note of mournfulness 
for those dear ones who had lived, suffered, aspired, 
and passed into the unknown. He felt very strongly 
Iain’s absence to-night, as he listened to the arid patter 
of the rain on the window like the hard hoofs of little 


GILLESPIE 


427 


animals. He was oppressed by a sense of disaster ; but 
dreaded to speak his fear, lest he divert his grandfather’s 
mind also to a sorrowful contemplation of danger. 

Part of a ham hung from an iron hook in the ceiling. 
The old man stood on a chair and took it down to cut 
some for their tea. 

“It’ll put by the winter,” he said, sighing; “your 
faither said I’ll be glad to go an’ beg frae him yet. God 
be thankit ! I’ll no’ be brocht to that. I’m in no man’s 
debt.” He pushed back a thick, black, curling lock 
behind his ear. “ I’ve aye peyed my way. Iain, God 
bless him, he never failed me for my feu duty and taxes 
frae the day he gied aboard a boat. What wad I do 
withoot him ? He’s better to me than twenty sons. 
Och ! och ! I bocht a shop for Gillespie an’ gied him curing- 
sheds wi’ a’ I saved frae the fishin’, an’ I’m left bitin’ 
my nails noo. How could I help it when he wad come 
greetin’ on my face sayin’ his business was goin’ back ? 
Ay ! I gied Iain the cheque to go to the bank, an’ I 
swithered too, for I was leavin’ mysel’ bare in my old 
age. Och ! och ! an’ Iain said, ‘ He’s your son, grand- 
faither.’ It was Iain knew hoo greedy he was then, 
though I didna. An’ it was Iain’s own name wi’ mine 
that was on the deposit receipt, for it was to him it was 
to go. Weel, Gillespie got it an’ made a big sicht o’ 
money, and then I askit my ain back.” 

“ ‘ What’s an auld man lik’ you needin’ a’ that money 
for? ’ 

“ * Gillespie,’ I said ; ‘ you’re weel off noo ; gie me the 
siller I lent you ; it’s no’ for mysel’, it’s for Iain.’ 

“ ‘ Iain ! Iain’s a young man ; let him face the world 
an’ mak’ his wy lik’ me.’ 

“ ‘ God forbid,’ I said. 

“ ‘ Don’t be nesty noo ower a wee pickle siller ’ — that’s 
your faither’s way, Eoghan, to turn the faut on every 


428 


GILLESPIE 


one but himsel’. I could maist greet to think that his 
mither’s son had siccan a black he’rt.” 

“ ‘ I canna sterve,’ I said to him. 

“ ‘ Hoots, I’ll no’ see ye bate for bite or sup.’ 

“ ‘ Dinna fash, Gillespie. God has never seen me go 
wantin’. I’ll mand for a’ the time I hae to leeve. If 
ye’ll no’ can gie me my ain, pay me seven pounds noo 
for your mither’s coffin.’ Och ! och ! poor granny ! ” 
The old man’s body shook pitiably. Eoghan was 
swallowing back the choking sobs. 

“ ‘ I haena any ready money by me ; thae traivellers 
are aye on the top o’ me; there’s no leevin’ wi’ them, 
faither,’ that’s what he said.” The muscles on the old 
man’s face became rigid. 

“ * Faither ! did ye say ? Never ca’ me that again as long 
as ye leeve. Ye’re nae mair a son o’ mine. The curse 
o’ God Almighty ’ill visit ye yet for this. Some day ye’ll 
darken my door when the hand o’ God lies sore on ye — 
ay, some day. If ye winna pey me, ye’ll pey Him. 
He’s His ain judgment bidin’.” 

Even as he spoke the judgment was begun : the 
foundations of the house of Gillespie Strang were being 
sapped. Iain his son lay with a broken leg in the lee 
of the engine-room casing. This as a privation would 
not have been momentous to Gillespie had he known; 
but what would have troubled him would have been the 
knowledge that the skilled hand was departed from the 
wheel, and his uninsured craft was exposed to imminent 
peril. 

Eoghan, saddened by the recital, sat with a look of 
hopeless misery, the incarnation of a recent description 
of him : “Ye ay expect him to be greetin’ wi’ thon 
face.” 

The great seas thundered on the beach without. The 
wind was now as stallions maddened by demon riders 


GILLESPIE 


429 


and screaming in pain ; now in a lull as eagles from eyrie 
headlands, whose great wings rustled fiercely as they 
swept past. The door opened with a rush of the wind. 
The visitor had to force it shut with his shoulder. He 
came in stooping, dripping wet, a thin, pale-faced, white- 
haired man, round-shouldered a little, with small eyes 
which, when they rested on old Mr. Strang, melted with 
tenderness. It was James the sailmaker, who lived in 
a loft among the rats, and who often in his evening walk 
visited Mr. Strang. To-night, however, he came on a 
mission. 

“ It’s tempestuous wild, Jamie,” said old Mr. Strang. 

The sailmaker pulled down the collar of his jacket 
and took a seat. 

“ I’m anxious,” he said. “ Gillespie wouldn’t allow 
a mizzen or foresail on his steamer.” 

The old man rose to his feet, then sat down, and his 
dark, massive head fell forward. He knew the way of 
the sea. Presently he raised his head, and going to the 
outside door opened it. Those within heard him moan 
two words twice over, “ Mo thruaigh ! mo thruaigh ! ” 
He wrestled with the door and returned to the kitchen. 

“ It’s sou’ -east,” he said, and the leonine head sunk on 
the breast ; “ Iain — Iain — granny’s boy ” 

The sailmaker rose, and looking at Eoghan said in a 
low voice : 

“ Bring down the Books.” 

Eoghan gave him his grandfather’s Bible, a broad 
book with large type. 

“ Let us sing together the twentieth psalm.” 

The wind raved without ; the firmament seemed to be 
huddling along in a dark madness. 

“Jehovah hear thee in the day 
When trouble He doth send; 

And let the name of Jacob’s God 
Thee from all ill defend.” 


430 


GILLESPIE 


The sailmaker’s head was thrown back, his eyes were 
on the ceiling with a rapt look, his voice rang out full, 
resonant, appealing above the storm. The old man 
sat with his head buried in his hands. Eoghan’s eyes 
were fixed intently on the sailmaker, the intercessor 
who, he was persuaded, was in that moment in com- 
munion with the Almighty. Strong and compelling the 
sailmaker’s voice soared, as if he were summoning 
legions of angels from the throne of Heaven. 

The psalm was finished and he announced in a loud 
voice : “ Let us read in the hundred and seventh psalm.” 

Eoghan waited upon the rustling of the leaves as if 
Fate were stealing a march ahead. The sailmaker cast 
up his eyes to the ceiling in silent invocation and began 
to read : 

“ ‘ They go down to the sea in ships / ” — (“ and meet with 
lightning, snow, and tempest,”) — the words were arising 
involuntarily in Eoghan’s mind — “ ‘ they mount up to 
heaven , they go down again to the depths ,’ ” — (“ It’s sou’- 
east, sou ’-east, the shelterless wind ; ” an overmastering 
desire came upon Eoghan to scream out the words) — 
“ * their soul is melted because of trouble .’ ” Eoghan had a 
sudden vision of Iain, his mouth open, drooping, wretched ; 
his sorrow-smitten face — “ Ye’ll mind my words when 
one o’ ye finds the other ” — the spey-wife’s malicious 
face rose before him, symbolical of doom. His knees 
quaked and shook together. In that moment he knew 
his brother was lost. “ ‘ Then are they glad because they 
be quiet : so He bring eth them to their desired haven ’ ” 

“ No ! no ! no ! Iain ! Iain ! Drowned among the 
lightning and the storm; no more, no more.” 

The sailmaker looked up wonderingly at the wild cry. 

“ Wheest! ” he chided, “it is still his haven; he shall 
be glad because he is quiet.” The sign without clattered 
as with the jangling sound of the spey-wife’s tins. 


GILLESPIE 


431 


Down on their knees they went, his grandfather’s 
boots scraping on the floor. The fervent voice of the 
sailmaker rose in appeal to the Maker of the heavens 
and the earth to safeguard him who that night was 
tossing upon the stormy deep. The clamour of the wind 
could not drown the voice ; in sobbing tones it pleaded 
with Jesus of Galilee to intercede at the right hand of 
God, and in simple, burning words life and destiny were 
committed to the care of the Great, All-Seeing Father. 
The old man rose with difficulty from his knees, with 
tears upon his face. The house shook to the onset of 
the gale; the seas tore and clawed upon the beach. A 
gigantic comber burst in thunder, and its spindrift 
whipped across the window-pane. This was part of 
that long wall of water which, smashing upon the stern 
of the Sudden Jerk , had lifted Iain away into the vast 
darkness and the desired haven where there is quiet. 

Eoghan had trotted down this road from the “ Ghost ” 
to the Crimea gun before — blindly as now. He 
remembered — it was in that awful dream. The wind 
tore at him as he stood clinging with his arms cast about 
the muzzle of the gun, and staring into the blinding waste 
seaward. The rollers burst with loud reports on the 
concrete fragments of the Pier at the end of the road, 
and the spray flew in sheets, soaking him to the skin. 
He felt nothing, heard nothing, as he strained out across 
the wild wash and roar of the night. He had been 
capricious, sensitive to affront, quick-tempered, secretive, 
full of pride, obsessed with dreams and hopes of future 
distinction. Probably had he lived and been tutored 
by circumstance he would have developed into a more 
human being, less selfish, brooding and capricious, and 
in old age have become a tender, pious man. But hauteur, 
secrecy, brooding, gave way at the moment to hopeless, 


432 


GILLESPIE 


incurable grief. Like all sensitive souls he was paying 
the price for his gift of imagination. His soul was 
flayed. 

“ Shame is sitting at the fire, and sorrow looking in 
at the window from the sea. I wish I were dead too.” 
Iain’s mournful face swam up before him. He saw the 
whites of the eyes turned up and the open, pitiable mouth 
all wet. “ I slept with him. I stole sweeties out of the 
shop and passed them to him on Sundays.” He clenched 
his fist, sinking his nails into his palm. He was feeling 
the answering squeeze of his brother’s fingers. He 
remembered a clear-shining night and a rising moon, 
and the sails of fishing-boats shimmering against tall 
dark hills, and Iain wrapping him in a great-coat as they 
stood on the bridge at the wheel. For a long time Iain 
had refused to allow him aboard the Sudden Jerk. 

“ You’re far better in your bed at home, young fellow. 
Thon life’s no’ for you.” The fact is that Iain never 
trusted the Sudden J erk ; but in fine midsummer weather 
he had yielded, and by the wheel on the bridge had taught 
Eoghan to steer by compass and read the mariner’s 
stars. Eoghan remembered now how in the cold wind 
of the dawn Iain with tender solicitude had sent him 
with eyes heavy on sleep to bunk, and on the next day 
had commanded him home in one of the herring-skiffs. 

“ Sonny, you’re not built for this work ; take my tip 
and quit.” Eoghan saw again the white teeth flashing 
as he laughed. And now that mouth of laughter, those 
radiant dark eyes, were drenched in the brine. He felt 
his heart was breaking, and leaning his head upon the 
gun burst into a paroxysm of sobbing — another tragic 
echo of humanity’s ancient heart-break cry for what is 
irretrievably lost. 

“ Oh, dear God ! how I loved to hear him laugh — 
cold, cold in a sea-grave ” 


CHAPTER VIII 


In a sea-town which harbours a fishing-fleet these are 
the footsteps of the men in the night which the women 
know — the trudge which tells of bleak shores and empty 
boats; the joyous ring of the steel-shod heels with which 
the younger men dent the pavements, crying aloud of 
herring; and another step — ominous, slow, shuffling, as 
men creep silently home. Women strain their ears, for 
the step may not stop at their door ; and if it does not — 
why, there shall no longer be the big sea-boots to clean. 
On that step at the threshold hangs life and death; will 
it go by or enter in ? The families who have given tithe 
of their folk to the sea have heard it pass away up the 
lane into a silence which, louder than trumpetings, they 
shall never forget. What a moment is that when the 
step comes to the door and it is opened and “ Oh, is 
it you ? ” cries the wife or daughter, and, overcome with 
joy, drags in the wearied man! In another house the 
wife is lying staring into the dark waiting, waiting for 
the feet that will never come. 

Such a step would never come to Gillespie’s door; 
only the footstep of Eoghan, who passed into the kitchen, 
drenched to the skin, and looked in silence upon his 
father, who was bending over a ledger opened on the 
table. 

“ How’s the wind ? ” he asked without glancing up. 

Eoghan shuddered. 

“ Sou’-east,” he answered. 

“ No fishin’ the nicht,” Gillespie grunted in a dis-< 
F p 433 


434 GILLESPIE 

satisfied tone ; “ Iain ’ill be playin’ the f’ute to the 
Ardrossan keelies.” 

“ You’ll never hear his step upon the stair again.” 
Eoghan wondered why he said that, and how dispassion- 
ately he uttered it. The clock ticked on through a 
minute’s silence. “Never again! never again!” it was 
rapping out. Gillespie laid down his pen in the cleft 
of the book and slowly lifted his head. 

“ What’s that ye’re sayin’ ? ” 

“ Iain has found his desired haven.” 

Gillespie stretched out his hand for the pen. “ Ay ! 
he’ll hae a’ the tinklers o’ Sautcoats listenin’ to him in 
the fo’c’sle.” 

“ That’s not the haven; ” Eoghan spoke calmly, as if 
wrapt in a far-off dream. The hand of Gillespie was 
arrested on its way to the pen. 

“ Whatna hairbour ? ” he asked sharply. 

“ Heaven, I hope.” 

The hand slowly slid backwards and fell off the table, 
and Gillespie rose to his feet, supporting himself by grip- 
ping the edge of the table. His eyes were dilated upon 
his son. 

“ Eoghan ” — his voice shook — “ what dae ye mean ? 
Wha told ye ? ” 

“ Iain’s drowned and I’ll find him. The spey-wife 
told me.” 

Gillespie’s mouth slowly opened. In a flash Eoghan 
saw its resemblance to that of Iain in its slack, dejected 
droop. 

“ Drooned ! Hoo can that be an’ him in Ardrossan 
Hairbour a nicht lik’ this ? ” 

“ They’re at the bottom of the sea, steamer and all.” 

Gillespie sank limply into his chair and stared fixedly 
before him. “ Drooned ! drooned ! a nicht lik’ this. 
I thocht he had some skill o’ the sea, an’ was playin’ 


GILLESPIE 


435 


his f’ute to the Ardrossan keelies ; drooned ! an’ the 

steamer no’ insured ” Gillespie was ignorant that 

he was alone in the kitchen. For the first time in his 
life his ledger was as ashes. 

To the sorrow which death brings it was a grievous 
addition in the minds of maritime nations that their dead 
should by mischance lie weltering in the ooze. We have 
that noblest of laments by Propertius, giving poignant 
utterance to this feeling in words full of the complaint 
and roar of the sea : 

“ And now thou hast the whole Carpathian Sea for 
a grave.” 

Men whose labours are in the deep abhor its vastness 
for a sepulchre, whether it be in the great South Seas 
or within sight of the lights of home. 

So new “ sweeps ” had to be prepared for dragging 
the Loch when they discovered the bow of the Sudden 
Jerk pointing skyward among the rocks — a lonely, 
pathetic memorial to the drowned. The old “ sweeps,” 
the property of the town, had last been seen in the sail- 
maker’s loft. Some said they had been sent to Ardmarkie 
when a fishing-skiff had sunk there in the first of the 
great gales which arose after the plague ship had come. 
Brieston was prepared to have new “ sweeps ” made at 
the public cost when, contrary to expectation, Gillespie 
sent the hanks of rope, the twine, and the hooks to the 
Good Templars’ Hall, where the fishermen had gathered. 

“ Boat an’ son lost ; the birch is on his back,” it was said, 
when Sandy the Fox deposited the material in the Hall. 

Eoghan could not endure the house, which had suddenly 
become too big. The sight of his brother’s clothes in 
their room was intolerable, and he heard his mother 
weeping in the kitchen. The shop was closed ; every one 
was idle ; a cloud of inertness lay on the town. Stocks and 


436 


GILLESPIE 


stones and living beings gazed dumbly upon each other. 
He crept to the Good Templars’ Hall, which he found half 
full of men scattered over the forms. Each man had a 
coil of string and a pile of gleaming hooks at his side. 
Old Sandy was teaching a younger fisherman how the 
thing was done. 

“ Put a clove hitch on’t — see, like that.” The old 
man twisted the thin twine at one end twice round the 
index finger, ran the other end through the double loop 
thus made, placed the ends of three hooks together, 
inserted these ends within the loops, tightened the loops 
upon the butt of the triple hook by pulling the end of 
the twine, and then wound a thinner piece of string 
tightly along the diminutive grappling anchor thus made. 
To this anchor of hooks a yard of string was attached, 
and hundreds of these so constructed were fastened, 
each by this yard of string, to a long, stout back-rope 
at intervals of about half a fathom. With this apparatus 
the bed of the Loch was to be swept. As Eoghan watched, 
the glittering hooks became like snakes. They would 
find Iain ; would sink into his face, tear out his eyes . . . 
Dizziness came over him ; the Hall and its figures grew 
blurred. He felt himself about to fall, and groping to 
a form sank down on it. He saw his father walking 
about among the men, his face drawn and haggard. 
Not wishing to be seen by Gillespie he swayed upon his 
feet and stole out. He saw the blinds drawn in the shop 
in the Square and in the house. Harbour Street was 
empty save for a large black dog, which lay with its head 
on its paws and its amber eyes fixed on the door of the 
Hall, and further along towards the Square the town 
scavenger with his barrow. He shuddered at the bleak 
aspect, and mechanically turned in the direction of the 
“ Ghost.” On the Pier Road people passed him with 
pitying glances. A woman dressed in furs and carrying 


GILLESPIE 


437 


a small paper parcel halted and spoke to him. He cast 
a forlorn look at her and hurried on. He passed the 
“ Ghost ” with bent head, hoping he was unnoticed. In 
that hour of bitterness he could not face his grandfather, 
whom he knew would be sitting on the chair against 
the bed, his elbows on his knees, reading the Bible. At 
the end of the shore-road, a little beyond the guns, he 
climbed a fence that ran down into the sea, and stumbled 
along among boulders and bracken. A long grey fore- 
land rested upon the sea in front of him like a gigantic 
whale asleep. He climbed out of the valley of bracken 
up the face of the foreland. The same benumbed calm- 
ness now possessed him, as he was about to gain the ridge, 
which he had experienced last night when talking to 
his father. He knew what the shore held beyond that 
ridge. Presently he was on the top, and below him saw 
the thing — a sharp bow projecting over a rock, tilted 
upwards and pointing straight at him. A piece of rope 
hung over the bow and swayed in the breeze. The thin 
foremast, displaced by the shock, leaned away with a 
deep rake from the bow, as if in dissension with that part 
of the ship which had led it to this death-trap. The 
only thing of man’s handiwork on that long grey shore, 
it looked, in its battered blackness, full of profound pathos 
— melancholy, solitary, empty, dead. Eoghan gazed 
down in awe. The sinister calm which is in the heart 
of a cyclone possessed him. He had passed beyond 
tears to unutterable pain. The emptiness of the broken 
boat, the silence of the sea, piled upon him a world-weight 
of heartache. Like a blind man he groped down the 
hillside. Above the shore the russet hazel wood was 
thick with nuts, through which glanced the streak of a 
squirrel. With a rush the memory came upon him of 
their last visit to a hazel wood, and the ominous prophecy 
of the spey-wife. He stood on the edge of the water 


438 


GILLESPIE 


and peered out beyond the broken thing on the rocks 
into the blue-black depths, profound, silent, oily. 

“ Down there, down there,” he groaned. 

The water had a silky movement, a lazy, noiseless 
motion; its dark, blind, restless face looked up at him 
ironically. There was something insatiable in its depths, 
inscrutable in its calm, stealthy and padding as a beast 
coming out of a wood in its gluck upon the rocks. It 
watched him with fixed, glassy eye — an eye void of in- 
tellect and passion, but baleful, hard, and cold. Beneath 
the eye it was a long, black, polished wall down which 
men slipped — the Lazaruses of the sea. He looked 
abroad upon the flat, unwinking face of the deep with 
growing terror. He recalled his old fear of it as a boy — 
fear of its eyes of fire — terrible eyes that watched and 
waited for him. A chill struck upon his heart. The 
silence around him had become monstrous. It lay like a 
great dark -green wing against the face of the hill. Menace 
was materialising. The naked rocks jutting out of the 
heather had a savage look. He was in the presence of 
loneliness, in the presence of death animated by terror. 
The sea became glassy like the eyes of the dead, and fearful 
as if such eyes were to wink. The silence was now a 
material thing — shutters of iron pressing in upon his 
brain. He turned sharply and saw a face of horror upon 
the wood. It, too, was full of eyes watching him. Menace 
surrounded him — eyes in the forest and nemesis in the 
sea. He heard his heart beat loudly in the stillness. 
A gull flapped past with a carrion stroke of its wings, 
accentuating the blasting solitude. The smoke of the 
haven drifting up across the foreland seemed far-off 
and homely. One of these surges of the ground swell 
that roll in on the calmest days struck the shore, and 
the broken boat made a harsh, grinding noise. It re- 
minded him of the sinister power of the sea. Fear gripped 


GILLESPIE 


439 


him. He was chained to the spot, listening to his beating 
heart. The wood was listening in all its blood-red 
leaves as with a million ears, till on his last heart-beat 
it would toss its branches aloft in fiendish glee ; and the 
sea was watching with its cold, merciless eyes. With a 
mighty effort he wrenched himself as by the roots from 
the spot and fled towards the foreland. A thing invisible 
in the wood jeered behind his back. He swerved up 
towards the hills, fighting his way through man-high 
bracken. The trees cut off his route, and he plunged 
down towards the shore, determined to crawl across 
the sloping snout of the foreland, which was his shortest 
way. His right side was red-hot with pain. Twice he 
slipped on the smooth stone as he crossed it, and his 
teeth clicked together as he heard the gurgle of the 
black water in the caves below. Its sullen plunge was 
the knocking of the Angel of Death at the door of his 
life. He lay face downward on the sloping rock, his 
nails dug into its cracks and wrinkles, and with eyes 
averted from the sea crawled across the gigantic stone 
nose. The ground was more open here ; in a few minutes 
he was across the valley and over the fence, and flung 
himself down on a grassy plateau above the guns. His 
body was quivering from head to foot like a doll that is 
danced on springs. He buried his face in the cool turf, 
drank in deep draughts of the fragrance of the soil, and 
his panic oozed out of him into the profound breast of 
mother earth. Ah ! if he could but have sunk into her 
vast bosom then, deep in the place of forgetfulness and 
rest, and taken upon him the dreamless sleep of the ages. 
. . . When he raised his head he saw, across the old 
Crimea cannon and the low, flat roofs of the powder 
magazines, his grandfather standing at the door of the 
“ Ghost ” gazing out upon the Loch. Above the old 
man’s head the inn sign gently stirred in the sea-wind. 


440 


GILLESPIE 


It was like a leaf of autumn swaying and about to fall. 
Then he thought it a moribund hand beckoning to him 
from the rigging of a house of mourning and calamity. 

They worked till the light failed in the Hall, speaking 
of the dead with commiseration. Whatever Gillespie 
was, his son had been a staunch comrade, a quiet fellow, 
jolly at times, without pride, and it was noted always 
with a special word for the old people. They mourned 
his untimely death, and rejoiced that they were privileged 
to labour a little in order to do him the last service. The 
rain was upon the roof at dusk when Mr. Maurice, who 
was still in Brieston, entered the Hall and inquired for 
Gillespie. The two entered into close conversation. 
Presently Mr. Maurice walked down to the front of the 
Hall, faced the men and uncovered. The wind was 
rising in sudden gusts which drove the rain in showering 
cascades on the windows. The men followed the example 
of the minister, took off their caps, rose, and bowed their 
heads. “ Remember them, 0 Lord, that go down to 
the sea in ships.” The beating rain drowned his voice, 
and fragments only were heard “ . . . that are swallowed 
up to await the restitution of all things. . . . Thy way is in 
the sea, Thy path in the great waters. ... 0 Lord God, 
have pity when there is a noise of a cry from the fish-gate, 
and the thresholds are desolate for the sorrow that is in 
the sea . . . unto Thee at whose face the waters are afraid, 
till there shall be no more sea . . . unto Thee who art the 
Resurrection and the Life for ever and ever. Amen.” 

At the Amen old Sandy lifted his white head and face 
to the ceiling, and his solemn petition rang out in a lull 
of the wind to every corner of the Hall. “ May Goad 
Almighty make the morrow calm.” 

Without, a dry moon was lying on her back — a sign, 
said the old men, of good weather. 


CHAPTER IX 


Her mistress had lost her head, and kept on saying, 
“ Thank God it’s no’ Eoghan.” Janet had managed to 
soothe her, as if she were a child, when she started up, 
exclaiming : 

“ Oh, Janet ! Janet ! I wish the Almighty would 
burn up the sea.” Topsail was amazed at any one 
thinking the sea could burn. Then the secret of her 
mistress’s fear was revealed. 

“ He’ll put poor Eoghan into the boats, an’ he’ll be 
drowned next.” A great deep sigh burst from the pale 
lips. Her eyes stared mechanically like the fixed glass 
eyes of a doll. 

“ There ! there ! dinna tak’ on noo ; we’ll no’ allow 
Eoghan into the boats; he’s goin’ to the Coallege.” 

Her mistress wiped her eyes and made a gesture of 
despair. “ I wish He would burn it to the bone. I 
mind when Eoghan was a boy he was scared o’ the sea.” 
A troubled look came into her eyes ; her head fell slackly 
on the back of the chair. 

“ Come an’ lie doon a wee whilie.” Topsail took her 
arm and oxtered her to bed. 

Topsail returned to the kitchen, and as she laid the table 
for breakfast there was a hunted expression in her eyes. 
“ Och ! och ! the sea ! that weary sea ! ” She shook her 
fist in the direction of the Harbour. The astringency 
and callousness of the sea had indeed invaded the house 
of Gillespie. 

He looked crumpled as he sat at table. His hair, 
441 


442 


GILLESPIE 


now shot with silver, had wasted away from the high 
forehead. In that hour he looked old. The silence of 
the meal was broken only by the canaries’ crack, crackling 
of their seed. He had transferred the birds from the shop 
because they had attracted mice. Eoghan came in, 
dressed in a jersey and a black silk muffler round his neck. 

Gillespie looked up. Eoghan remarked that his father’s 
face had a wilted appearance. “ Are ye for the sweeps ? ” 
he asked. 

“ Yes.” 

Gillespie lapsed into silence. 

“ Och ! no ! it’s no’ the place for you,” coaxed Topsail, 
alarmed at the effect this would have on her mistress. 
“ Was it no’ enough for poor Iain to be at the sea ? Many 
a sore trial he had on thae weary boats ” 

“ Hold your tongue, wumman,” Gillespie snarled. 

“ Och ! then just bide at hame,” she wheedled. 

“ You fool ! they’ll never find Iain without me.” 

Topsail smiled, as if the insult were a blandishment. 

Gillespie gloomed upon his son with a hint of fear in 
his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it 
without saying anything, and went on with his breakfast. 

“ Is my mother not up yet ? ” Eoghan fixed Topsail 
with a sharp glance. 

“ She never slept a wink a’ nicht, an’ has been vomitin’ 
a’ mornin’.” 

Gillespie’s chair scrunched on the floor. He rose 
sharply to his feet. 

“ Did the spey-wife tell ye thon ? ” 

“ What? ” 

“ That ye’d find Iain.” 

The peculiar sensation again affected Eoghan as of 
speaking out of a dream. He felt impassive, immune 
from either sorrow or fear, and his answer came as from 
an oracle. 


GILLESPIE 


443 


“ She said one would be drowned, and would be found 
by the other.” 

Gillespie contemplated him gloomily. “ Old wife’s 
noansense,” he muttered. 

“ It’s prophecy.” Eoghan felt detached from the 
world; a voice that was not of him was speaking; he 
was in an environment half familiar, half strange. He 
was listening again to a tale of his grandfather’s; but it 
was not his grandfather’s voice ; it was a dim, ancestral 
voice. The wind of ancient days shook his soul, and a 
spirit of remote times passed upon him. 

“ It’s prophecy ; always has been prophecy ; a prophecy 
of doom upon our house; a curse that shall never be 
removed till murder is done; the hands of the son shall 
be in the blood of his parents.” 

He was drawing slowly, then more swiftly out of a 
vague immensity, hurrying at frightful velocity out of 
a realm of shadows. He was dimly aware that in a 
moment he would awaken from this hallucination. He 
found himself shivering in the midst of the kitchen floor, 
with his father’s hand on his shoulder. What immedi- 
ately occurred to him was the simple thought that his 
father since childhood had never touched his person. 
He heard his father’s voice full of sorrow : 

“ Are ye sleep- walkin’, Eoghan ? ” 

He shook himself slightly. “ I think I was in a trance,” 
he said, with a puzzled look. He became afraid as he 
went slowly down the stair — afraid because he had seen 
fear for a moment pass into his father’s eyes. 

In a stupor he took his place in one of the boats. 
There were seven in all to work the “ sweeps.” He was 
on the instant of saying, “ This is the boat that will find 
the body,” but checked himself. What had he said to 
terrify his father ? He groped for the dim, elusive words. 
Their meaning hovered a moment on the confines of 


444 


GILLESPIE 


memory and then vanished, leaving him baffled. Why 
was he here, impelled by a power not himself ? If he 
had refused to come they would have discovered Iain 
without his help. Perhaps, on the other hand, they would 
never find the body. 

Fragments of the conversation in the boat impinged 
upon his consciousness ; but conveyed no meaning : 

“ Poor Iain has got the auld grey nurse to rock him 
asleep. He was the dacent quiet fellow . . . ay, but 
Eoghan’s her he’rt laddie; she’d lay her hair about his 
feet ... It must hev been a cruel night, boys. There 
was an eclipse o’ the sun an’ new moon the same day. 
I don’t wonder wi’ thae eclipses at folk gettin’ drooned 
. . . . it’s butivul weather.” He was now aware that 
some one was addressing him, and roused himself. It 
was old Sandy. The varnished skiffs ahead of him flashed 
in the sun. Over the villas on the Pier Road blue smoke 
hung like foliage in the air ; the bells of milk carts, taught 
of Gillespie, were ringing blithely in Brieston, and cocks 
shrilled lustily all round the horse-shoe Harbour, pro- 
claiming the blandness of the morning. A barque, 
two-masted, with every sail set, was floating out tall and 
stately on the tide, as if mermaids’ hands were pulling her 
from beneath. Quiet fish were leaping inshore where the 
blue shoaled to green ; ducks paddled around like floating 
masses of snow; a multitude of birds sang among the 
bushes. 

As they cleared the outer Harbour to the rhythmic 
sweep of the oars there opened up a distant clear and 
blue prospect. The morning was faintly misty, and 
the sunlight quivered through a shimmering veil. Blue 
promontory, lazy curving bight, the sweep of bays, 
flashing beaches, a panorama of forest, bracken, and 
grey lichened rock filled the eye with tranquil aspect. 
The shadows of rocks and trees hung motionless in the 


GILLESPIE 


445 


water, and one could scarce discern where shore ended 
and sea began. About the solemn fleet of boats with 
barked sails reddened in the light the sea was soiled with 
the scum and tangle that appear after a gale. 

They drifted south, and the men, touched to taciturnity 
and vague melancholy by their traffic on lonely waters, 
were unusually silent, because of the solemnity with which 
their mission was fraught. The shadows of gulls flitted 
over the rocks; other shadows trembled in the shore- 
shallows, and looked like faint waves. A dolphin’s razor 
back cut through the surface of the water; and far off 
on the empty southern horizon stood up the sail of an 
invisible boat — an aimless, solitary thing blown out to 
sea. Beyond it a cloud of snowflakes drifted seaward. 
It was a great flight of solan geese glittering in the sun. 

They rounded the foreland across which Eoghan had 
crawled, and an imposing spectacle met their gaze. In 
the soft light all things looked far away, floating up out 
of a dream country. In the south-east sky bars of purple 
were changing rapidly to violet, to pink, to cinnabar; 
here and there were nooks of delicate sea-shell tints 
and traceries of gold. In the deepest sky was a fret- 
work of flame, which changed to cloud cataracts of 
golden fire. Stark against those swaying, gorgeous sky- 
flowers was the black mast of the broken ship, pricked out 
in unrelieved desolation, and the bow rearing up impotent 
and sombre against the magic and splendour of multi- 
tudinous pools and lines of fire. She was bathed in a 
baptism of flame, heeling into the long dream-glory of 
the lingering morning. The southern isles swam up in 
mirage into the atmosphere, and became diaphanous 
apparitions in the midst of vast sea-spaces — cloud-crowned 
islands floating in light, transient and melting as in a 
thoroughfare of sea-dreams. “ Boys, it bates a’ the 
artists ” — old Sandy’s face quickened as he gazed on 


446 


GILLESPIE 


the spectacle of ineffable beauty. Eoghan raised his 
head and looked across the gunwale. In the heart of 
the glowing sky pain was seated. Pathos and poignancy 
rested upon that elusive vanishing glory. It was full of 
sadness, this ethereal tapestry of light, woven of angels’ 
jewelled hands, and spread by them over the dead in his 
cold, dark grave. Eoghan groaned within himself. This 
splendour mocked him with its irony; its beauty made 
him faint with heartache. Cold, passionless, terrible 
painting ! The bars of gold across the sky lay upon his 
soul in that moment as metals heated in a furnace. 

The boats were now strung out in a long line and 
the “ sweeps ” let down into the sea. Each boat was 
attached by a sixty- fathom line to the long back-rope, 
from which hung the grappling hooks. They began to 
row, trailing the “ sweeps.” Now and again a man 
shouted ; the line was drawn in ; the back-rope appeared ; 
and beneath, attached to the hooks, a mass of tangle, 
which was torn off and the “ sweeps ” sunk once more. 
Once a dog-fish was hooked. Eoghan shuddered as he 
saw the grey serpent fish wriggling in the water, with its 
baleful pale-blue eyes fixed upon him full of malice. 
The faces of the men were channelled with sweat. Some 
one in the fourth boat off shouted, “ It’s no’ seaweed 
this time ! ” The men in this boat began hauling gently. 
A bald head shot above the water. The sun struck on 
it, glittering on its wetness. Immediately on the next 
grappling a dark shoulder surged through the water, 
as if the man were swimming. These were the bodies 
of the engineer and the deck-hand, who had gone down 
together. 

Again the work of mercy went on. The men in Eoghan’s 
boat discussed the drift of the tides, the probable position 
of the body, its chances of being wedged in among 
boulders. Eoghan all this time was gazing intently 


GILLESPIE 


447 


into the face of the sea, as if he could divine the secrets 
which lurked in its smiling face. His mind was far from 
the reality of the present. He was picturing Iain alive. 
He saw his white teeth flashing beneath his moustache ; 
saw him cock his head with a characteristic gesture; 
heard his slow, measured speech. The face grew beneath 
him out of the water, mysterious, twilit, strong with 
life. The mouth was about to speak to him ; the eyes 
swam mistily with all their old tenderness ; the laugh, 
scarce more than a smile, that always got home to his 
heart — the low laugh of pride on the day when Eoghan 
had carried a silver medal home from school. 

“ You’re a brick ; you’re small, youngster, but the 
medal’s bright.” That was all ; but it was a world. He 
could hear the words now, as he beheld that dear lost 
face gazing up sorrowfully from the salt grey waves. 
It was full of that solicitude which he had discovered 
in it on that windy dawn when he had sent him below 
from the bridge. Dimly in his sleep he knew some one 
was covering him in the bunk with a horse-blanket — 
some one who, in the broad morning as he was preparing 
to go aboard the skiff that was to bring him home, said, 
“You quit the sea, youngster, an’ stick to your books ” — 
there was a world of regret in these words — “ for once she 
gets you she keeps you till the end.” Till the end ! 

He laid his hand with startling suddenness on the 
heaving line. “ Iain’s here ! ” he said. Again he was 
speaking out of a dreamland words not his own. 

“ Easy there, boys ! ” old Sandy shouted. 

Eoghan was hauling on the line. “ She keeps you till 
the end ” was echoing in his brain. An opaque face in 
the grey water was looking up at him piteously. He 
was making swallowing sounds in his throat. Oh, face 
swimming up in the salt sea ! 

“ Easy aft ! easy aft ! ” 


448 


GILLESPIE 


The wet face slid into darkness as the strain on the 
back-rope from the other boats was relaxed. “ Pull a 
touch ! ” rang out the command with strained intensity. 
Old Sandy was about to take the line from Eoghan’s 
hand when the expression on the lad’s face stayed him. 
Out of the dreamland beyond Time and Space that 
face was growing again into his vision — the mouth was 
slackly gaping ; wavelets playing over the forehead and 
stirring the thick dark hair; the eyes utterly dead, their 
light quenched, their smile gone. They had a strange 
callous stare ; they looked like balls of granite, on which 
the brine streamed like tears. The flesh was sodden 
and of a greenish-yellow. An arm clothed in rags was 
piteously stretched out to him. 

“ Iain ! Iain ! ” he whispered, and leaning down over 
the gunwale put his hands beneath the head. It gently 
swam up to him, as if suddenly alive at his touch. 

“ Oh, Iain ! Iain ! ” The piercing cry was heard in all 
the boats. 

“ Easy there! ” yelled old Sandy angrily; “ don’t lift 
the heid oot o’ the watter.” From old experience he 
knew that the head might come away from the trunk. 
Eoghan did not hear him. He slipped his arm around 
the shoulders, embracing the body and sobbing, “ Come 
home! come home, Iain!” The shoulders lurched up; 
he leaned far over the gunwale, drew the face upwards and 
placed his mouth on the clammy lips, on the moustache, 
on the brow. Old Sandy deftly slipped the bight of a 
rope beneath the shoulders, and to disengage Eoghan 
put the end of the rope into his hands. Other ropes 
were slipped down to the middle, the thighs, the feet. 
The nearest boat came up and closed in on the other side. 
In the quadruple sling they lifted the dripping body out 
of the water, tenderly as if it were gossamer. The broken 
leg hung limply. Old Sandy nodded to the men in the 


GILLESPIE 


449 


other boat, then glanced at Eoghan. They lifted the 
body into this boat, which drew apart. 

Eoghan sat in the bow, his eyes fixed on the boat 
ahead, seeing the dripping face that lay now covered 
with a jib. The world was full of light, and a very little 
was denied those eyes. Nothing will restore to them 
their smile. He closed his own eyes wearily. “ I shall 
never, never hear him speak again,” he thought, and 
cried out : 

“ Oh, Sandy ! Sandy ! I wish I were dead.” 

“ Ay,” answered the old man, looking sadly up to 
the hills ; “ but He doesna tek’ us when we want.” The 
little ball of wool on the top of his round bonnet nodded 
ludicrously. “ He keeps us to thole an’ to learn.” 
There was a profound look of sorrow on his wrinkled, 
sea- tanned face. 

Within the hour they found the cook. Of all the 
crew the sea-boy was the only one whom the dog-fish 
had touched — Andy Rodgers’s son, and his mother was 
a widow. “ An ill day for Andy an’ his faimly that they 
ever saw Gillespa’,” muttered Ned o’ the Horn, as he 
covered the boy’s mangled face. 

The boats went home in a silent, funereal procession 
through a faint mist. Off the “ Ghost ” Eoghan asked 
the men to bring Iain’s body ashore there. Four of 
them bore it in a sail to the house. Fog had gathered 
thick from seaward. Eoghan followed behind with 
drooping head. Old Strang stood beneath the sign 
over the door awaiting them. He lifted his feet heavily 
on the stone flags, going in before them, and with shaking 
hands placed chairs in the midst of the kitchen floor. 
There they laid the body, and tenderly himself the old 
man set straight the broken limb which was lying awry. 
When all was finished he contemplated the upturned face. 

“ More than a son to me,” came the mournful words. 


450 


GILLESPIE 


He swayed like a flower in a gale. “ God kens it was 
hard enough wi’ the oar in his hand a’ nicht ; but he didna 
compleen; no, he didna compleen. I’ll no’ be lang after 
him. The kirkyaird ’ll be hoose an’ hame to me noo. 
I’m but leevin’ on borrowed ground. But the Lord 
has been kind to me thae weary years wi’ Iain. Thank 
the Lord for His lovingkindness.” The swaying of the 
body ceased. It became rigid. The silence was broken 
by the drip, drip of water on the stone flags. 

44 1’m a broken auld man, an’ my son herrit my hoose ; 
but that’s noathin’ ; I’m a forlorn object.” The sorrow- 
ing tones pierced the hearts of the listeners. 

“ Dinna tek’ on, Dick,” old Sandy said pityingly. 

Mr. Strang lifted his gaze from the dead ; his withered 
eyes were searching around for the one who spoke. 

44 No ! no ! ” he cried, making a gesture with his hands. 
44 I’m no’ fashin’ ; what for wad an auld man wi’ a rookit 
hoose be fashin’ ? . . . There was a day when I could 
sing a ballat ; but no’ noo ; no’ noo. ... I wish I might 
be beggin’ at Gillespie’s dure wi’ my bare heid in the 
rain than that this had come aboot. ... A broken leg 
forby ! . . . He was as bricht as the lown morn when 
he played his flute at the fire-en’ ! . . . Am I no’ the fair 
object ? . . . noathin’ to do but to bring him to mind.” 
He was now unconscious of his audience. 44 Iain was his 
granny’s boy. ... 4 It’s growin’ dark, Richard,’ she 
said to me ; 4 are the blinds doon ? ’ but the blinds werena 
doon, an’ the lamp was burnin’ ; 4 then I’m goin’ fast.’ . . . 
It’s growin’ dark — growin’ dark.” He sat down heavily 
on the single chair at the bed, and buried his face in his 
hands. 

Without in the fog the sign had ceased from its strangling 
cry. The half- obliterated face of the man holding the 
dagger looked down as if brooding upon the fate of the 
house of Strang, and the sign was at rest. Death had 


GILLESPIE 


451 


brought it reverie and peace. Out of the illimitable 
grey on the Loch came the boom of a steamer’s siren. 
It wandered away in the vast, as if with wings growing 
feebler in the baffling gloom, a wailing phantom 
seeking a lost land of holy quiet. It was answered by 
the mournful croak of a heron somewhere on the shore 
below Muirhead Farm. Eoghan was at the door. He 
had started out to seek Mary Bunch or another who would 
minister to the dead. As the wailing cry on the opposite 
shore died away, and the heavy blanketing silence closed 
down again, his eyes strained to seaward, and out of a 
far land of dreams beyond the fog and the sorrow of the 
sea, beyond the weariness of watching woods and demon 
forests and little sea-towns besieged by the melancholy 
of waves, and mournful with the noise of rains, a drift- 
music like soft bells, invincible, balmy, dividing asunder 
the joints and marrow, reached him. 

“ They are all at rest, 

They are all at rest, 

Far ever that summer sea.’* 


END OF BOOK III 


BOOK IV 


CHAPTER I 

Rob’s daughter was coming. The news moved Eoghan 
deeply. How well he remembered Rob when every 
winter that hero put in at Brieston in a large two -masted 
smack which had come from “ the North ” — a land of 
enchantment, where for many months he had cured 
herring for a salesman in the Glasgow Fish Market, 
and on the way home touched at Brieston. When the 
Strang family had broken up in Ayrshire his grandfather’s 
brother had shipped before the mast in a Cape Horner, 
leaving his wife and two young children in Ayr. Three 
times he came back like a resurrected man from the 
great South Seas, the last time clothed in a blanket, 
having been robbed and plundered in the Vennel at 
Greenock. Once more he shipped, and old Mr. Strang 
thought him buried somewhere behind the Great Barrier 
Reef, this luckless Archie. Of his family one, a girl, 
was married, and kept a fruiterer’s shop in Port Glasgow. 
The other was Rob. Just as sure as the sun would rise 
would a cran basket full of unused provisions be brought 
by two of the smack’s crew to the “ Ghost.” Eoghan 
remembered that among other things it would contain 
ketchup, which was never on Gillespie’s table, and just 
as sure also would the basket be followed by Rob. His 
grandfather would be restless all evening, going frequently 
to the front door to peer up the road to the wharf ; then 

452 


GILLESPIE 


453 


return to his Bible or to patching his clothes, and when 
the door would at last open he was on his feet saying, 
“ I got the proveesions, Rob,” and Rob would laugh with 
flashing teeth and “ How are ye, Richard ? ” he would 
cry. He had such big white teeth, and a light golden 
beard and blue eyes filled with liquid laughter. Then 
he would sit down on a chair at the bed — it was always 
the same chair — and in a minute they were deep in con- 
versation about the North fishing. How the strange 
names rang in Eoghan’s ears like a song — Kylleakin, 
Loch Broom, Loch Hourn, Stornoway; and Rob’s teeth 
flashing bare to the gums and his blue eyes dancing madly 
in his head. Up and up he would hitch his trousers, 
till their folds were almost at his knees. 

“ And how’s Gillespie ? ” he would cry ; “ makin’ money 
as usual ? ” and would not wait till the old man gave an 
answer. It was long afterwards that Eoghan wondered 
how so hearty a fellow as Rob could be so delicate as 
to save the old man from replying. 

About nine o’clock Rob would take out of his pocket 
a bottle which came all the way from Skye, and stamping 
his trousers back over his ankles he would leave it on 
the table, shake hands with the old man, and say as he 
was going out of the door, “ The boys ’ll leave you the 
herrin’ the morn ” — a barrel of cured herring specially 
pickled by Rob. 

On the morrow he was gone, trailing the savour of his 
wondrous Northland, and leaving his gifts and ketchup 
behind. Only once did he take particular notice of 
Eoghan, who was seated with the back of his chair 
I against the press door beneath the wag-at-the-wa’, at 
- the little round mahogany table, working at mathematics. 
“ Hullo ! ” he cried, “ what’s the professor doin’ ? ” 
and he looked over Eoghan’s shrinking shoulder. 

“ Algebra,” Eoghan answered shyly. 


454 


GILLESPIE 


“ Algebra ! your faither could beat us a’ at the coontin’. 
You’ll have your fait her ’s heid for arithmetic.” 

“ He’s goin’ to be a scholar,” said the old man ; “ but 
his faither ’ll no’ gie him money for books.” 

Eoghan felt humiliated, and his face became crimson. 

“ I’ll no’ see him bate, Richard ; ” and Eoghan saw a 
big, shining half-crown lying in the midst of his hot palm. 
He could not look up at Rob for the shame and the wild 
joy that was in him ; but gulped over his book and clenched 
the coin till it burned his palm. 

All that evening he watched Rob, furtively stealing 
hungry glances at his sea- tanned face. He was unable 
to understand this being who tossed half-crowns to boys 
to buy books, and forget it all in the next moment. 
He belonged to another world — the enchanted land of 
Skye and the North. He could have fallen down and 
worshipped this hero. And the years passed and Rob 
came no more. 

“ Is Rob no’ cornin’ back from the North any more, 
grandfaither ? ” 

“ No more.” 

The dark, massive head dropped on the frail hands. 

Eoghan’s heart stood still with sudden fear as in a 
flash he guessed. The tears rushed into his eyes. 

“ Grandfather, is Rob dead ? ” 

“ No more; no more,” was the answer. 

Beep, dim, and lost for ever within the enchanted 
land beyond the magic of Loch Hourn and the wondrous 
Isle of Skye lay Rob, the big, cheery laugh stilled for 
ever in a land of far distances. Rob had been snatched 
away by some envious power. No more the two tapering 
masts and the tall smack filling the Harbour. The world 
was blank and grey. It was Eoghan’s second loss. 

And now his daughter was coming. 

“ Is she to stay long, grandfather ? ” 


GILLESPIE 


455 


“ She’s no’ goin’ back. Och ! och ! this is a gurt empty 
hoose since Iain was drooned.” After a moment’s silence 
he added, “ We’ll be kind to the lassie.” 

“ Ay, grandfather.” He wished Rob could hear him, 
now a man grown, vowing defence and protection of 
his girl — ah, that the gallant could hear him ! but the 
deep, silent North was shrouded in the twilight of eternal 
sleep, and Rob lay on the shining sands where only the 
seals come. 

After Iain’s burial Mrs. Strang began to lose strength, 
and Topsail Janet could hear, mingled with her coughing 
in the night, the boom of Gillespie’s grumbling that his 
sleep was being broken. Topsail was deceived in the 
spots of red which burned on the cheek-bones of her 
mistress. She simply thought they made her look very 
young, while her eyes shone brightly. Maclean recom- 
mended a change, to which Gillespie agreed for reasons 
of his own. Through the chatter of his household he 
had picked up the information that Barbara, Rob’s 
daughter, was expected at the “ Ghost.” He knew that 
Rob had had considerable property in Dunoon, and had 
no doubt that his own father was constituted the girl’s 
guardian. The business of getting into touch with her had 
exercised him for some days, and he now instructed his 
wife that she must go for a change to Dunoon and form 
acquaintance with Barbara. Topsail was up before 
daybreak preparing the clothes of her mistress. Her 
feet could be heard crinkling through the leaves in the 
back green at dawn. Gillespie gave his wife five pounds, 
and Topsail added many injunctions — that she was to put 
on her goloshes ; to be sure and remember her toddy 
before going to bed — one teaspoonful of sugar ; to take 
good charge of her umbrella ; and God forgive her if she 
would allow herself to get run over with horses in the 
big streets. “ Hurry back ; good-bye, good-bye.” Top- 


456 


GILLESPIE 


sail hastened to the parlour window, watched the ascent 
of her mistress into the ’bus at the “ George Hotel,” 
and stood waving a duster as the ’bus racketed down 
Harbour Street and vanished beyond the police station 
at the Quay. 

The afternoon wore on long as a December night. 
Eoghan spent most of his time at the “ Ghost.” The 
house was singularly dreary and still as the grave. 
Topsail heard all the clocks ticking. “ Weary fa’ that 
Dunoon,” she muttered for the twentieth time that 
evening, and lay awake all night. At dawn she stripped 
the kitchen, and at breakfast-time Gillespie found chaos, 
in the midst of which Topsail abated the fever of her 
mind by standing on the top of a table, with a towel 
wrapped about her head, and whitewashing the ceiling. 

“Ye’re thrang,” observed Gillespie. 

Yes, she was sweeping away the cobwebs when the 
chance offered. Gillespie, plunged in thought, now and 
again eyed Topsail, whose face was speckled with white- 
wash and ochre. She demanded that the canaries be 
taken back to the shop. 

When Gillespie came in that evening at nine o’clock 
the kitchen shone like a star. Topsail proposed to redd 
out the parlour to-morrow, and dreamt that night of 
rescuing her mistress from the feet of horses, which she 
beat off with a whitewash brush. 

In the morning Gillespie had important news for her. 
Her mistress had sent him a telegram which Topsail 
eagerly scanned. 

“ Ay,” she nodded briskly, “ I ken her hand o’ 
write.” 

Gillespie, who did not trouble himself to rectify this 
mistake, announced that her mistress and Barbara were 
returning home. 

Topsail was overjoyed at the news. “ What wad she dae 


GILLESPIE 


457 


in yon gurt toon, sweemin’ lik’ a cuddie among a’ thae 
folk ? I kenna what’s cornin’ ower the doctor sendin’ her 
away frae the caller air amang coomb an’ reek.” Maclean 
had suffered a loss of prestige in her eyes. Gillespie, 
however, had something of moment to tell her. In his 
hand he held a letter, the product of long and anxious 
consideration. He had determined to act as Barbara’s 
guardian, hoping that the signature Strang would be 
sufficient for the girl who, ignorant of the relations of 
father and son, would not differentiate between the 
signature Richard Strang and Gillespie Strang. The 
thing would come out, of course, when the girl reached 
Brieston ; but by that time the affair would be on the 
road to completion, and Gillespie would then point out 
that his father was too old to undertake the duties of 
trustee. Gillespie chiefly reckoned on the first step, 
concerning which he had written a letter, and which if 
carried out would put the reins in his hands. He had 
thought at first of posting the letter; but two reasons 
weighed against this course — if he dispatched it by the 
hand of the family servant it would carry more weight, 
and the post was uncertain, for they might leave Dunoon 
at any time. He had come to the determination of 
disposing of Barbara’s property in Dunoon. He had 
heard that a steamer which was something of a white 
elephant to the owners was to be put on the market. Her 
boiler had blown out once or twice and was leaking; 
freights were low; the debt on the steamer amounted 
now almost to as much as she was worth; the owner 
would be glad to be rid of her. Gillespie knew she would 
be a profitable boat for herring-buying, but was now 
afraid of risks at sea, and chary of sinking his own money 
in the venture. He would transfer Barbara’s capital 
in property at Dunoon to this new investment, and in 
the letter would give his father’s authority for the step. 


458 


GILLESPIE 


When the affair came out he reckoned on his father’s 
scrupulousness for the family name to shield him. Besides, 
he had a right to some such action, for his father had 
had all the profit out of Iain, and now in Iain’s place 
was obtaining a housekeeper in the person of Barbara. 
The facts which Barbara had to learn were contained in 
the letter — that the value of property was depreciating ; 
that feu duty, rates and taxes and the cost of wear and 
tear were becoming onerous; now that she was leaving 
Dunoon a factor’s percentage would eat away the rents. 
On all accounts it would be better to sell the property 
on the basis of a twenty years’ purchase. This was the 
usual thing, and would bring in about a thousand pounds, 
which would be invested in a more advantageous way in 
Brieston. He impressed on the girl the importance of 
mastering these details and laying them before the lawyer 
who was to conduct the case. “ Thae lawyers are a set of 
tinklers,” he wrote. In point of fact he furnished these 
technicalities to divert any suspicion which the lawyer 
might entertain; but on second thoughts he would send 
out his own lawyer — a step that would save her trouble 
and expense. “ Your father spoke to me more than once 
as regards this, and my own father at the ‘ Ghost ’ 
gave me orders to write to ye, as he is too old for a pen, 
and I think it is best for all concerned. Your own father 
thought this a needcessity, and it is not convenient for 
you to have that property in Dunoon when you will be 
in Brieston. Topsail Janet will meet ye in Dunoon 
and give ye this letter, and you can tell Mr. McAskill 
the lawer that he can be looking out for a good buyer 
with ready money ” — the last two words were underlined. 
“ We are all enjoying good health, hopping this will find 
you all enjoying the same Blessing. My father joins 
with me in saying we will do our best for you, investing 
your money and settling your affairs. If you will take 


GILLESPIE 459 

my advice settle it at once and don’t delay. Hopping 
this will find all well, 

“ Your affectionate friend, 

“ G. Strang.” 

There was no express reference to his wife in the 
communic ation. 

“Topsail,” he said; “ye hevna had a holiday since 
ye cam’ into my service.” 

“ Are ye for puttin’ me away, Gillespie ? ” She 
stood like a child, looking down at her raw red hands, 
waiting for the word which would cast her into the 
street. She knew Gillespie’s suave way of stabbing 
people, and was not so unsophisticated as to believe that 
he gave gifts of holidays. Ah ! little shop, old sacred 
spot, thou wert a roof indeed now ; but a shoemaker sits 
there driving sparables. She had revisited that shrine 
once, with boots to be mended. It was dingy and stank 
of leather. Where could she go? Jeck the Traiveller. 
No, she would not be unfaithful to the plumber. Her 
mind became a grey blank. 

“ Hae ye the toothache, Janet ? ” 

Cruel jester ! she wished she was beside the plumber 
beneath the sod. 

“ I’ve nae toothache.” 

“ What ails ye, then ? ” 

“ I hae neither freen’ nor hame to gang to.” 

“ Never mind f reend or hame ; ye’ll gang to Dunoon 
the morn for a bit jaunt.” 

She suddenly swam out of the deep of one emotion 
into a greater. 

“ Oh, I was never on a jaunt a’ my days ! I don’t 
ken the wy.” The earth was being torn up from its 
settled foundations. 

“ The wy’s easy enough ; ye’ll tak’ the steamer the 
morn.” 


460 


GILLESPIE 


“ No ! no ! ” She wrung her hands. “ An’ auld roosty 
craw lik’ me. What’ll become o’ the hoose ? ” 

“ Huts ! the hoose ’ill no’ gang oot on the tide for a 
day.” Gillespie, tolerant so far, now proceeded briskly 
to instruct Topsail. 

“ Ye’ll tak’ the steamer the morn an’ gang to Dunoon 
wi’ her; dae ye unnerstand ? ” He spoke slowly, as 
teaching a lesson. 

“ Ay ! ay ! ” she answered out of a nightmare. 

“ Here, then, tak’ this.” He handed her the letter and 
a slip of paper. On the slip of paper was written : 

“ Barbara Strang, 

27 Clyde Street.” 

“ Show the bit paper to the man at the Pier an’ ax 
him to direct ye to this hoose ” — he tapped the paper 
with his forefinger — “ an’ when ye win there gie this 
letter” — another tap with the forefinger — “ to Barbara.” 

“ Are ye fo-ollowin’ me ? ” 

He repeated his instruction da capo. “ There, noo ; 
dae ye understan’ ? ” 

“ Am I to be in Dunoon wi’ the mistress ? ” 

“ Ye are,” answered this strange maker of gorgeous 
events. 

Topsail’s face was suffused with joy. She was about 
to embark for the Hesperides or the Morning Star. 

Though the hour of the steamer’s departure was two 
o’clock she, after a sleepless night, was up betimes, for 
there was a thing which troubled her, concerning which 
she wished to consult Gillespie. At seven o’clock she 
sat at the parlour window in her bonnet, wearing black 
cotton gloves and tenaciously gripping a heavy umbrella, 
to which Gillespie was wont to attach himself when he 
honoured the dead by attending their obsequies. She 
had polished her square-toed boots by candle-light. The 


GILLESPIE 


461 


last time she had worn them was when she had ventured 
to church. She watched the light steal upon a Harbour 
grey as glass ; heard on the Quay -road pattering footsteps, 
and saw the baker appear with the collar of his jacket 
up to his ears. This melancholy man had always a 
foreboding that at such a still hour of drawn blinds 
there was no money in the town, and all labour of man 
was vain. He vanished with hanging head in a close- 
mouth. A yellow dog trotted across the Square and 
Topsail, vaguely wondering to whom the dog belonged, 
sighed : 

44 It’s gey an’ gled I’ll be this nicht for a sicht o’ the 
beast.” She turned away from the fires of dawn in the 
Harbour mouth, and the morning acclamation of sea-fowl 
on the skerries and on the net-poles. The adventure 
was becoming terribly imminent. She stripped off her 
finery, for she had overlooked breakfast ; but forgot her 
bonnet, on which dust settled in grey clouds as she raked 
out the ashes in the grate. 

At breakfast she feared to broach her trouble to Gillespie, 
and in the interval to the one o’clock dinner wandered 
from room to room with a blanched face, and her eyes 
constantly riveted upon the clock. At dinner she could 
eat nothing. 

44 What ails ye, wumman ? ” Gillespie asked, in a far-off 
voice. 

4 4 Och ! och ! dinna fash me ; this is the greatest trial 
since the plumber died. My inside feels fou o’ wee 
jaggin’ preens.” 

Gillespie appeared to be deaf. 

A pathetic look of defiance came into her eyes. 44 If 
I’m gaun to Dunoon ” — her voice quavered upon tears — 
44 I’m gaun respectable.” 

44 Eh ! wha-at’s that ye’re sayin’ ? ” 

44 I’m a dacent weeda wumman.” The agonised 


462 GILLESPIE 

brooding of a fevered night was out ; she swayed a little, 
feeling faint. 

Gillespie looked up critically from among the fish 
bones. 

“ Ye’re nane sae ill put on,” he said, and resumed his 
steady attack on the boiled cod. 

“ I tell ye, Gillespie, I’m gaun respectable, wi’ my 
wee black tin box. A’body that’s dacent tak’s their 
luggage. Ye’re no’ gaun to shove me aff to Dunoon 
lik’ a moonlicht flittin’ wi’ naethin’ to my name. If my 
mither’s wee black box doesna go, I’ll bide at hame.” 
She was on the verge of tears. 

“ Hoots ! dinna get intae the nerves, wumman.” 

44 Jeck ’ll be here in a meenut or two ” — she glanced 
at the clock whose dial she could not read — 4 4 an’ me wi’ 
noathin’ for him to cairry; him that’s accustomed to 
the pockmanty’s o’ the nabbery. Nan at Jock an’ Mary 
Bunch an’ Lucky ’ll be keekin’ doon MacCalman’s Lane 
to watch me gang across the Square. ‘ An’ there’s she’s 
off,’ they’ll be sayin’, 4 off to Dunoon lik’ a pookit hen.’ 
I’ll be fair affrontit.” She gasped as if for air. 

44 Where’s your box, wumman ? ” 

44 It’s ablow the bed up the stair.” 

44 What hev’ ye in it ? ” 

44 Noathin’,” answered Topsail wearily, 44 but a broken 
he’rt.” 

She fled up to the Coffin, and presently returned with 
the sacred relic, whose empty interior shone like a 
mirror. 

44 It’s gey toom,” sneered Gillespie ; 44 ye’ll gang fast 
on the road wi’ an empty kist.” He pushed back 
his plate and rose to his feet, took some coins from his 
pocket, counted them, and gave them to Topsail. 

44 There’s twa shullin’s an’ ninepence ; that’s the price 
o’ a ticket to Dunoon wi’ the steerage ; Barbara ’ll pey 


GILLESPIE 463 

your fare hame.” He kicked the tin box, and said 
jocularly : 

“ Put in your tooth-brush an’ your nicht-dress, Janet; 
that’s what the big fowk cairry.” 

“ I’ve nane,” sighed Topsail, without shame. 

Halfway down the stair Gillespie shouted, “ It’s no* 
every day ye gang on a jaunt, Janet. Bide a meenut.” 
Gillespie returned, a little brown bag in his hand. “ Hae,” 
he cried, “ there’s a poke o’ black strippit balls for your 
box.” Topsail solemnly added this contribution to her 
treasury. Gillespie completed his instructions and said 
it was time she took the road. He could not afford her 
threepence for her ’bus-fare to the Pier. She picked up 
her box and hastily retreated to the Coffin. She took a 
battered book off the brace, and reverently laid it within 
the box. It was her mother’s Bible. Then glancing 
furtively at the door she plunged her hand beneath the 
mattress, deftly whipped out a half mutchkin bottle 
wrapped in brown paper, and laid it beside the Bible. 

“ Goad only kens if she got a drap frae the day she left 
home,” she whispered to Gillespie’s poke of sweeties and 
her mother’s Bible. 


CHAPTER II 


Only the poor sail from the Quay by luggage steamer, 
on which you embark leisurely, picking your way among 
sacks of flour, barrels of herring and the like. Sometimes 
you slip on the bottle-green causey stones or sprawl 
over a rope, and away you go like the boys on a slide 
at the Barracks brae. You tell the fishermen where you 
are going and why, and joke with the porters — a cosy, 
easy, old wife. Once aboard with your little tin box 
you find the crew have leisure to gossip, and so keep at 
bay all manner of sickness — sea-sickness, home-sickness, 
and poverty-sickness. They know everything in Brieston, 
as if they were paid to find out — a surprising thing in 
men who are always sailing. They tell your astonished 
face that some one is always coming and going with bits 
of news. 

They are putting cattle on board, whose sterns little 
boys are flicking with switches. Standing near the 
Captain in his pilot jacket you are filled with unholy 
joy to see how difficult it is — the boys are yelling; one 
of the porters is twisting the tail of the foremost beast, 
another is dragging it by a rope round its horns ; men 
are belabouring it with sticks towards the gangway. 
The Captain, very angry, has an enormous silver watch in 
his hand. The boat will be fearfully late and she may 
take the ground. His face is very red as he swears and 
shouts : 

“ Thresh the coo ; twist the bitch’s tail ; she’s as dour 
as Lonen’ himsel’.” 


464 


GILLESPIE 


465 


What a hubbub of bleating sheep going away to 
the Low Country for the wintering, barking of collies, 
bellowing of cattle, yelling of men and boys, and the 
shopkeepers in their doors in shirt sleeves watching 
the ploy. The horses are the worst. They stand on 
their hind legs as if they were at the circus on fair day. 
There is nothing for it but to put them in a loose-box 
and swing them aboard. They look so funny snorting 
up there with terror, their heads against the sky. And 
there is Kate the Hawker cursing mankind with her 
Irish brogue because one of the porters, pushing a fast 
barrow, knocked her down on the top of her crate of hens 
which she bought in Islay. It is rich sailing from the 
Quay; but just because the Captain never knows when 
he can start most people sail from the Pier away down 
near the “ Ghost.” It needs a nerve and genteel clothes 
to take steamer there. The thing is to fly down on the 
’bus if you have no carriage of your own, and have Jeck 
the Traiveller carry your luggage aboard where, in the 
twinkling of an eye, you are swallowed up in a crowd 
of strangers. The Captain, high up in a glittering place 
all alone, would no more think of asking after your health 
than he would of swearing or smoking or pulling a rope. 
He speaks to a man standing beside a little brass wheel 
which you think makes the boat go. And the hands 
wear collars, and have some writing across their breasts 
on their jerseys. What an awful crowd ! and you glued 
in the midst on the deck like a limpet on a rock. They 
are all gabbing even on and laughing and glowering with 
spy -glasses at Brieston, and reading books with covers 
like the covers of the red-skin books you sold long ago. 
You check a sigh, afraid of its being heard among these 
people with such fine clothes. The children play around 
you as if you were a post, and you feel yourself in the 
way, so that when a skemp in gold and brass buttons 

H H 


466 


GILLESPIE 


comes "up and says, “ Ticket, please,’’ you wish you 
could sink through the floor. They have no tickets 
on the luggage steamer, and are glad to see your half- 
crown. All trummlin’ you take out the little black purse. 
It was a wedding gift. It is battered ; the clasp is broken ; 
it is bound about with thread. Like yourself it is gone 
far on the way of life ; yet you hold it dear as a regiment 
treasures an old rent flag. You try to hide its rags; 
nor are you going to show that inside you have a little 
photograph of Eoghan taken at the fair, which you 
carried away from the Coffin for safety, in case the house 
should go on fire while you are absent. The skemp 
tells you to walk ever so far down among all those swells 
to a box where you may buy a ticket. The floor is so 
clean you are ashamed of your big boots. Every one is 
staring at you because you have no ticket. You feel 
hunted, and stand with your fingers in your bonnet- 
strings. Oh, oh, here he comes again ! You know 
your face is flushed. Shame overwhelms you. The skemp 
is in front of you, pulling at a little moustache the colour 
of straw. He offers to lead the way. Does he think 
you haven’t the money ? You put up your hand in the 
black cotton glove as if to keep off a blow and follow 
him, your eyes on the floor, walking as lightly as possible 
lest your sparables mark the wood. You bump into a 
fat lady all spread out with silk, and look up beseechingly 
into gold specs. How she smiles, as if it were her fault ! 
She must be some princess. You could almost weep for 
vexation after that as you dodge the folk. Then you 
have to explain about your ticket ; you are going to the 
mistress and Barbara. The man at the window laughs, 
and you tell him no more. You have more pride before 
strangers, Goad be thankit ! 

You turn to put the ticket in the black tin box, and 
suddenly the heavens and the earth become just as black. 


GILLESPIE 


467 


You have left it behind in your hurry ! What a state of 
nerves you are in as you hurry back, your feet going as 
fast as your heart, and that goes if anything faster when 
you find the box is gone — gone with the black-strippit 
balls, and a new silk hanky Jeck slipped into your hand, 
and the wee brown paper parcel, and your mother’s 
Bible. Her name was on it. The tears are in your eyes, 
making the water, that is rushing by like a sea in a dream, 
and the hills all blurred. Life has suddenly become cruel ; 
the world very big, very empty ; you wish you could die. 

“ Hullo, Janet, whither bound ? ” 

You fairly jump at that warm, hearty voice, and your 
heart jumps too. It is Nan at J ock’s son home again from 
foreign pairts, dressed like the best of them, with a collar 
and white shirt and smoking a cigar. His face is not 
white like other folks. He is tall and thin, and his eyes 
are looking about as if the boat belonged to him. 

“ Oh, Jamie ! Jamie ! ” is all you can say, twittering. 
The next moment you are telling him all your trouble. 
He leads you to a seat, bids you bide there and is gone, 
to come back in a minute with one of the men who have 
writing on their jerseys. How angry Jamie is as he 
speaks to the man ! caring not, though you tell him to 
wheest, if all the ladies hear. They go off together, and 
you see Jamie giving the man a cigar. He comes back 
carrying the tin box. How your fingers close round it ! 
and you nurse it on your knee as once long ago you 
nursed Eoghan. The hills are pleasant again; how the 
children laugh as they breenge about! and only when 
Jamie, carrying the box, leads you down a braw big stair 
into the longest room you ever saw in your, life do you 
begin to get afraid once more. Such a sight of mirrors 
and furniture. Gillespie’s house is nothing to it : it 
will bate the Laird’s castle. You don’t know how it 
comes about, but a wee man in a white shirt has placed 


468 


GILLESPIE 


a cup of tea before you and Jamie. You don’t know yet 
how you managed to drink it ; but it did you a world of 
good. Jamie is saying he is giving up going foreign, 
and has got a second mate’s job on the Clyde shipping, 
and lucky, too, for there’s as many Skye men looking for 
jobs as would carry the ships of Clyde on their shoulders. 
You don’t hear one half he is saying, for you want to 
tell him — there it is out — that you are going on a jaunt 
to your mistress at Dunoon. But out of pure vexation 
you could never have told him had the wee black tin 
box been lost. 

And when you look at your glove after Jamie has 
shaken hands with you at the gangway at Dunoon Pier, 
you see a big white five-shilling piece looking up at you 
like a flower. Your turn round to thank Jamie, but he 
is gone. 


CHAPTER III 


She stood a forlorn figure on the Pier, with her back 
to the town, waving to Jamie. She watched his face 
growing smaller and vanishing ; watched till his handker- 
chief vanished also and nothing was left but a gigantic 
steamer moving beneath a cloud of smoke. She turned 
and faced the town, alone on the threshold of the world. 

4 4 What a wecht o’ hooses ! ” she murmured. Lights 
were springing up along the sea-front in a bewildering 
blaze as she went up the Pier, her bonnet nodding cheer- 
fully to Dunoon. She had a bunched-up appearance 
in her severe black clothes, and felt fatigued, and was 
faint from her long fast. The stony gaze of the unknown 
town left her sick at heart. Yet it was a smiling face 
which accosted the young lady at the turnstile — a face 
pathetically small buried in its bonnet. 

44 Will ye kindly direct me to Barbara’s hoose, miss ? ” 
Her bonnet bobbed and curtsied. 

44 Who is Barbara ? ” The young lady was petulant ; 
her figure stiff as a tree. It was tea-time, and the last 
steamer gone for the day. She was pulling on a glove. 

44 She’s a freen o’ Gillespie’s. I cam ee noo wi’ the 
boat frae Brieston.” 

44 I’m afraid I don’t know anything about your friend.” 
The tone was icily polite. 44 Twopence, please.” The 
young lady drummed impatiently on the ledge with 
gloved fingers. 

44 Gillespie told me they wad direct me at the Quay 
to Barbara’s. I’m to bide there the nicht.” 

469 


470 


GILLESPIE 


She was coldly, incisively interrupted : 

“ You have to pay twopence, please.” 

“ Whatna tuppence ? ” 

“ To get out.” 

Light broke in upon Topsail. “ Is this a jyle ? ” she 
asked. 

The young lady reddened. 4 4 If you don’t pay you 
will be left here all night.” 

“ Och ! och ! ye needna be sae hasty. Jamie gied me 
a croon ” 

“ Oh, do hurry ! I can’t wait here all night hearing 
about your friends.” 

Topsail tabled the five-shilling piece with lingering 
fingers. The young lady was humming disdainfully. 

“ Have you no change ? ” 

“ That’s a’ I hae in the world.” The bowed face was 
concealed beneath the nodding bonnet. “ It’s a peety 
if I’ll no’ can fin’ oot Barbara an’ the mistress.” 

“ Sorry,” was the tart answer, “ I can’t help you. 
There’s your change ; ” and the little window was slammed 
down. Topsail’s gaze wandered around helplessly, look- 
ing for an exit; she tapped on the window, but got no 
response. Suddenly the light within was extinguished. 
A step was heard outside and Topsail saw the form of 
the girl walking away from her. 

“ Dinna leave me here ! ” she cried ; “ I canna win oot.” 

Something frail and wizened in the older woman’s 
appearance moved the girl to compunction and she 
retraced her steps. “ Push ! ” she commanded, and at 
the same time pulled the turnstile. Topsail was amazed 
to find herself slowly wheeling out to freedom. “ This 
whutteruck o’ a whirlmaleerie’s like Lonend’s mill-wheel.” 
The girl’s equanimity being restored, she suggested that 
Topsail should apply to the police for information. 
Topsail, searching her pockets, discovered that she had 


GILLESPIE 


471 


left behind her the slip of paper with Barbara’s name 
and address. Gillespie’s excessive caution had prevented 
him from addressing the envelope containing the letter 
destined for Barbara. The girl, whose patience had given 
out during the search, was disgusted with such stupid 
provincialism, and, saying good-night, rapidly walked 
away. A thin grey rain began to fall. Topsail drew 
in to a street lamp and searched her black box. It 
contained no paper of Gillespie’s. She felt weary and 
old and afraid of homelessness as she began to walk 
down the street. Dishevelled and rain-draggled, she 
presented a drunken appearance. She met a man who 
turned his head to look at her as she passed; then two 
girls in macintoshes who giggled as they hurried by. 
There was a gnawing in the pit of her stomach. The 
noise of the waves breaking on the shore in the dark 
scared her. Her feet were dragging heavily. She moved 
off the road, put her box on the ground, and sank upon 
it. It buckled beneath her weight. The rain became 
heavier. She closed her eyes and began to shiver. She 
was feeling light in the head. A tag of an old nursing- 
song occurred to her; the words involuntarily forming 
themselves in her brain to the swing of the sea. She 
had repeated the first two lines : 

“ Oh, love it is pleasin’. 

Love ! it is teasin’,” 

when she heard a shriek out in the night. It was a 
liner’s siren. She jumped to her feet, snatched up her 
box and scurried along the street. Presently another 
street opened on the left where a bright light shone 
in a large window, and reminded her of Gillespie’s shop. 
It was a baker’s. When she entered she saw a man with 
a white beard behind the counter, and thought he was 
like Lonend’s billy-goat looking over a hedge. She 


472 


GILLESPIE 


undid the black thread on her purse and poured her 
money on the counter. 

“ I’ll be obleeged to ye for a scone.” 

The billy-goat gave her a large milk-scone and asking 
for twopence put out a plump white hand for the money, 
and observed it was a wet night. 

“ Ay ! I’ve got a drookin’,” she answered. The smell 
of the hot scone made her faint, and she began to eat 
ravenously. The baker, eyeing her, asked if she had 
come far. “ Yes, from Brieston. I’ve been stravaigin’ 
the toon the last ’oor lookin’ for Barbara an’ the mistress.” 

The billy-goat baker, a benevolent man, was touched, 
and soon had from Topsail her miserable story. He 
invited her up to “ the missis ” — a little elderly woman 
with a round, merry face and an abundance of soft 
brown hair. She was darning, and wore spectacles. The 
baker informed her of Topsail’s plight. He desired to 
shelter Topsail for the night, but was timid in suggesting 
this to his wife. “ The poor wumman canna go back 
to the street a night like this, Erchie.” He nodded, 
with an expression on his face which conveyed “ of 
course, I know that.” 

“ Dinna stand glowerin’ there. Put on the kettle an’ 
go back to the shop before it’ll be robbit.” The baker 
ceased nursing his magnificent beard and became active. 
His wife waddled with solicitude about the kitchen. As 
she laid out cups and saucers it occurred to her that 
the stranger was wet. She must change. Topsail hung 
her head, and confessed that the box contained her 
mother’s Bible. 

The baker, having shut his shop, sat down at the head 
of the table, his stiff beard over his tea-cup, and said 
grace. Blind man ! he did not notice that the meagre 
stranger was swamped in an amplitude of skirt. Topsail 
praised the scones. “ Ye maun gie me the recate for 


GILLESPIE 


473 


thae scones, Erchie,” she said. Erchie, forsooth ! 
What else would she call him ? and you may be sure 
Erchie promised. If there was a better flute player in 
the wet length and soaked breadth of Dunoon that night 
I should like to have heard him. Erchie sat in the low 
wicker armchair, unslippered and in socks with pink 
stripes, tootling away on a wee hole lost in the beautiful 
white beard, till the room rang like a wood on a summer’s 
morning. Topsail commended him in no uncertain way : 

“ Man, man, Erchie ! ye’re the braw hand ca’in’ 
awa’ at the f’ute ! I canna keep my feet stiddy for a 
meenut. Just you wait till I win hame an’ get started 
on a pair o’ warm socks for ye for the winter.” Topsail 
was thoroughly happy, for she had conceived a new 
work, of charity; yet sorrow came upon her for the 
flautist evoked a poignant memory. She thought on 
the dead Iain and his music. “ It minds me o’ poor 
Iain that’s deid an’ gone.” 

“ Who was Iain ? ” asked the baker’s wife, and as 
Topsail told the sad story light came to the brain of the 
musician. 

“ Did ye say that the name was Strang ? ” 

“ Ay,” Topsail nodded. 

“It’ll be Strang’s Land ye’re wantin’ — Barbara Strang.” 

Topsail nodded again ; her eyes shone. 

“ Is that no’ great ? ” ejaculated the baker ; “we found 
her out wi’ the flute.” 

To Topsail’s amazement the next morning she found 
Mr. McAskill with Barbara and her mistress, and he at 
once asked for the letter, which Topsail handed over to 
the girl. During the time Barbara was reading it the 
lawyer invited the baker into another room; told him 
that Miss Strang was removing to Brieston; that Mr. 
Strang, her guardian there, was anxious to dispose of her 
property in Dunoon, and he, the lawyer, would be under 


474 


GILLESPIE 


an obligation if the baker could give him the names of 
any likely purchasers in the town. Mr. Strang did not 
want any publicity in the matter. The baker pondered, 
looking down the line of his beard, and saying he would 
consult his wife, arranged to meet the lawyer on that 
evening at Miss Strang’s house. 

McAskill, secretly anxious to have the way clear, 
postponed the meeting with the baker till the following 
evening, dismissed him, and then informed the ladies 
that there was no necessity for them to delay longer 
in Dunoon. Miss Strang could make her preparations 
to-day, with Topsail’s assistance, and leave for Brieston 
to-morrow morning. He asked Miss Strang for Gillespie’s 
letter, because he must show his authority for effecting 
the sale of the property. McAskill’s eyes gleamed upon 
the letter as his hawk-like hand closed over documentary 
evidence of felony. Topsail, on her departure, asked 
McAskill to remember and get from Erchie the receipt 
for the scones. A smile hovered over the thin, com- 
pressed lips of the lawyer as he promised to attend to 
the matter. 


CHAPTER IV 


Topsail Janet was at her wits’ end. Her mistress 
was going from bad to worse, and there was a nameless 
fear upon the house. Once or twice she found a man 
lurking about the close at night. Jeck the Traiveller 
had hinted that such on-goings were the talk of the town, 
and that her mistress was too often in the Back Street 
among scum, with that Galbraith woman who was to 
marry Lonend at the New Year. A bonnie stepmother 
indeed ! Topsail took the news with disquieting silence. 
She was thinking of Eoghan, who seemed to live in the 
“ Ghost ” now and had a grey, hunted look on his face, 
and had become very thin — the stamp of soul-famine. 
Topsail commended mother and son to God as she 
listened to the stump, stump of her departing lover, 
and turned her eyes to the ancient lights of the sky in 
whose august processional march to-night she found 
no balm. Trouble brooded upon the house of Gillespie. 
She could not fathom all that was going on, nor find 
armour against this stealthy danger. She crawled to 
the Coffin loaded with anxiety. Since her return from 
Dunoon she had had very little sleep, because her mistress 
was often late, and Topsail would pace the floor of the 
Coffin in her stocking soles, one ear alert for her mistress 
on the stair, the other for sounds from Eoghan’s room. 
As soon as the step was heard on the outside stair she 
was down to the kitchen, cautioning her mistress to 
silence and assisting her to the Coffin. Her mistress 
was querulous and rude on these occasions, but Topsail 

475 


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GILLESPIE 


took no affront as she swiftly undressed her and put 
her to bed. Gillespie had long ago discovered this 
retreat and was without concern at the absence of his 
partner from his side. Once in the morning he had said 
to Topsail, letting the cat out of the bag, “ Stravaigin’ 
as usual; some night she’ll walk over the breist wa’ 
into the Hairbour — a good riddance.” 

Topsail became stupid for want of sleep, and did not 
manage to get through her work. No one appeared to 
take any notice. Gillespie frequently had his meals in 
his office. The kitchen became slovenly and Topsail 
troubled at first ; then became resigned. The apathy of 
her mistress had fallen upon her, entangling her in its 
mesh. 

“ A’ thing’s tapsalteerie in the hoose,” she complained 
to the Traiveller, who put a timid hand on her sleeve. 

“ Janet,” he said hoarsely, “ will ye no’ come home to 
my mother’s? She’s gettin’ blin’. I’m doin’ noane sae 
bad noo at the Quay.” He had a large barrow now which 
helped him greatly with the luggage, and was earning a 
steady seven-and-sixpence a week for “ catchin’ the 
steamer’s lines at the Quay an’ the Pier,” and for tending 
the gangways. “ The auld ane’s no’ fit for work.” 

Topsail withdrew from his touch not unkindly. 

“ Ye’re a good man, Jeck ; but I winna leave the 
missis ee noo for a widger.” Such are the intuitions 
and promptings of the heart of man that Jeck stumped 
home strangely elated, feeling the hard, raw hand of 
this woman yet warm within his own. 

Topsail’s mind was numb as she gazed at the vivid 
veins standing up on the neck of her mistress, who was 
watching the cats sporting themselves on the slates of 
the washing-house. Mrs. Strang was become an auto- 
maton of appetite, frozen by her husband’s negligence to 
a sphinx whose lustreless eyes looked out with appalling 


GILLESPIE 


477 


apathy upon the desert of life. She had sought else- 
where what had been legitimately denied to her passion ; 
and now passion degraded to debauchery was revenging 
itself mercilessly upon her, and she succumbed, a tragic 
figure played upon by the wiles and beaten upon by the 
rage of men. She had at first found easy access to the 
slaking of desire through the house of Mrs. Galbraith, 
when she found messages from Mr. Campion left for her 
there. He had been introduced at Lonend to Mrs. 
Galbraith, who admired him for his intellectual ability, 
and hoped that he might yet turn out a poet. It did 
not take her very long to discover from Mrs. Strang that 
some sort of intimacy existed betwixt Mr. Campion and 
Gillespie’s wife. Mrs. Galbraith, estimating that on the 
burning of his fleet Gillespie’s fall was imminent, was 
almost in despair at his wiry prosperity. Memories of 
her lost husband and home provoking her, she nursed 
her hatred and atrophied her conscience. She was about 
to contract a distasteful union with Lonend, hoping that 
in this way she would find fresh opportunity to trouble 
Gillespie. In the meanwhile she would strike at him 
through the infamy of his wife. The better sort would 
soon give the cold shoulder to a man whose wife was not 
only a common prostitute, but who had been driven 
to those vile courses through her husband’s cruelty. 
Mrs. Galbraith had no compunction for Lonend, and did 
not disguise from herself the fact that he had had a chief 
hand in evicting her from Muirhead. She betrayed as 
little compunction for a woman who had, she was con- 
vinced, already committed herself with the new school- 
master. Remorse seized her sometimes at night; but 
before the puling face of remorse she conjured up the 
grey, dead face of her husband, strong in its compulsion, 
from the unsleeping grave. 

Topsail Janet paid her a furtive visit on one of those 


478 


GILLESPIE 


rare evenings when Gillespie was at supper at the Banker’s. 
He was chagrined to find himself attacked there by Mr. 
Kennedy on the subject of Eoghan, whom Gillespie 
designed for the receipt of custom at the Pier ; but much 
to his mortification the Laird had refused to rent the 
Pier, and installed there one of his own men. Mr. Kennedy 
observed that Eoghan was unfit for manual work and 
had talent; he was getting on in years and time was 
passing. Gillespie admitted so much, but objected to 
the cost of a University education. 

“ Money is nothing ; your son’s happiness everything.” 

“ Noathin’ ! ” — Gillespie glanced slyly at the Banker — 
“ maybe ye leeve on the wun’. I hevna come across 
anything in the world that’ll bate it.” 

“ Money is tyranny; and tyranny is impotence.” 

“ It’s a minister ye should be, Mr. Kennedy.” This 
jest masked the rage in his heart, for he felt he was 
being trapped in public. 

“ Make your son one. Ministers are the true aristo- 
crats of the earth ; ” and Mr. Kennedy promised to coach 
Eoghan for the preliminary examination. 

Gillespie sneered openly. “ Thon’s an expense — playin’ 
the cairds wi’ young swells an’ boozin’ in the theeayters.” 
He had heard of such University wildness. “ The jib 
halyard wad soon be blown oot o’ the pin at thon rate.” 
Such talk was typical of Gillespie now. The pessimism 
of age was finding him out. He was constantly whining, 
and had become lachrymose. His money was engaged in 
dubious enterprises; he made no secret of the drain his 
wife was upon him; she made money go like snow off 
a dyke. He could hardly sell a barrel of salt herring 
now-a-days — him that had sent thousands to Rooshia. 
Even the Banker was bored, and changed the subject by 
asking his frivolous wife to play some music. The clatter 
of the piano drowned Gillespie’s querulous boom. 


GILLESPIE 


479 


Topsail heard this rattle and tinkle as she crept through 
MacCalman’s Lane to visit Mrs. Galbraith, to whom she 
signified by a gesture of unutterable weariness all her 
misery. Mrs. Galbraith easily pumped her, and was 
enraged to discover the stoicism of Gillespie. 

“ Nothing but the wrath of God will break his heart,” 
she said in such a fierce tone that it scared Topsail, who 
was profoundly amazed. She thought that all people 
were glad to remain at peace, so long as they had a roof 
and got a bite. She offered to help Mrs. Galbraith against 
Gillespie so long as her mistress was safeguarded, and 
pleaded that Mrs. Galbraith would deny her house to the 
mistress. It was the futile challenge of unsophisticated 
innocence to sin. Mrs. Galbraith, sane enough not to 
be angry with Topsail, saw that this simple mind might 
easily become the still, small voice that is louder than 
thunder, and soothed Topsail’s fears, assuring her that 
Jeck the Traiveller was absolutely wrong, and that her 
mistress came to no harm in the Back Street. In a 
sudden flash of inspiration she advised Topsail to inform 
Eoghan of her suspicions concerning the men who haunted 
Gillespie’s close. Topsail trembled at the idea, and shook 
in all her body. She was afraid of this woman, and 
intuitively felt herself in the presence of danger. Drawing 
her dark-green shawl over her head, she slipped out, a 
defeated angel. She presented a piteous spectacle as 
she scurried in the shadow of the low thatched houses, 
tripping and stumbling over the causey-stones, and 
fluttered like a lapwing across the lit Square. Terrible 
in God’s sight are the tears of a defeated angel. 


CHAPTER V 


“ Am I not a terrific swell, grandad ? ” Barbara shouted 
merrily, tears of laughter running down her cheeks. 
“ Listen to the shoes creaking ; they’re crying out that 
they are on loan.” Her incongruous dress accentuated 
her beauty. Miss Barbara Strang was some twenty- 
three years old. Her figure was tapering, firm, and trim. 
She had a fine poise and grace of head, which was covered 
with a cloud of soft brown hair; and a column-like 
magnificence of neck. Her present attire brought out 
the bold curves of her hips. Her brown eyes were 
swimming in liquid laughter as Eoghan gazed from the 
threshold, conscious of a flower-fragrance in her face 
and fire upon her parted lips. His grandfather, leaning 
back in the old-fashioned armchair with the high, 
carved wooden back, was purring in laughter. He wore 
his silver chain in his oxter. The girl was dressed in a 
tartan shawl whose fringes came to the knee. Between 
the top of her stocking and the fringe of the shawl was 
a span of white leg. Rabbit skins were wrapped about 
her boots ; a piece of white rug hung from her middle 
as a sporran; inside the rope which girt this sporran to 
her person was a bread-knife, and projecting from the 
top of the stocking his eye caught the handle of another 
knife — the skene dhu. She was holding a tile hat in her 
hand, and as he watched her glowing face she put up 
her leg on the whitewashed jamb of the fireplace, made 
a bow to the old man, and said with a mimicking simper, 
“ How d’ye like a kiltie for a lass, grandad ? ” The old 

480 


GILLESPIE 


481 


man’s expression, changing from merriment to recognition, 
made her suddenly wheel like a startled fawn. With an 
exclamation of horror she jerked down her leg, dropped 
the tile hat, and stooping, with the shawl fringe held over 
her knees, ran past Eoghan and bounded up the stair. 
He got one glimpse of wild, shy eyes lit with mischief 
and horrified with shame, and in that fleeting look his 
heart descended to infinite depths, and the next moment 
swam up to the surface drenched in love. 

“ Is she no’ the diversion ?” his grandfather was saying. 
“ She made me put away the Bible and dressed me.” 
His eye sought the silver chain apologetically. “ She 
was curling my hair before you came in.” 

Eoghan made no answer except to ask if she was Rob’s 
daughter. The “ Ghost ” had become wondrously festal 
and young. He was about to ask how the caper of the 
kilt had come about when he heard her descend the 
stair. She entered with drooping eyes and suffused face, 
approached him slowly and, smiling faintly, held out her 
hand. “ How do you do ? ” she asked. He rose from 
his seat, shook hands, and sat down in confusion. She 
thought him brusque and rude, and turning, addressed 
to the old man a question about the Castle overlooking 
the Harbour which she had seen from the steamer’s deck. 
Eoghan stole a furtive look. She wore a low broad white 
collar over the neck of a black silk blouse. She had 
something of the Quakeress in her appearance. Her 
attitude breathed purity and innocence. His gaze 
rested on her face as upon a happy home. She had fine 
brown eyes ; there was a light on her brow, a white star 
on her forehead. The old man nodded across the hearth. 

“ Eoghan there ’ll tell ye ; he’s a scholar.” 

Eoghan had a speaking eye, a compelling force of 
countenance when his emotions were aroused, and his eye 
fell burning upon the girl as she turned. She slipped her 
1 1 


482 


GILLESPIE 


fingers inside the low wide collar, ran them round till 
they met on her throat, and then, smoothing the fringes 
of the collar on her breast with a white, rather fragile, 
hand, vividly blue-veined, swept over Eoghan’s face a 
quick, dewy look. Immediately he began to pour out 
the history of the Castle. Her lips were parted ; her eyes 
now lustrous, now wide, as she listened. They brimmed 
over with laughter as he told the story of the key of 
the dungeon where the Bruce once locked in his English 
prisoners. The Bent Preen came one day to Gillespie 
and displayed to him a ponderous key about a foot in 
length, alleging that he had discovered it in the dungeon 
of the Castle. Gillespie bought the treasure-trove for 
a shilling, and made conspicuous display of the antique 
in his shop window. On a placard was printed, “ The 
Key of King Robert the Bruce’s dungeon.” It attracted 
crowds, who were convulsed with laughter, for the Bent 
Preen had let out the secret. The key was part of the 
scrap-iron gathered by the Eox in his country journeys, 
and was discovered by the Bent Preen lying on the heap 
at the Quay, waiting for the luggage steamer. Eoghan 
was glad that he had made her laugh so merrily. She 
asked if it was true that he was going to College. His 
heart leapt within him — she must have been talking 
about him. His volatile spirit rose like a flame. Yes; 
in three weeks’ time. And what was he going to be ? 
“ A minister,” the old man piped out. Oh ! oh ! she 
would be afraid of him then, and confessed she had made 
grandad stop reading his Bible to watch her pranks. 
She stopped suddenly and blushed furiously, and put her 
hands lightly behind her back. This gave her figure a 
willowy, supple appearance. Himself confused and his 
heart beating tumultuously he offered to show her the 
Castle, where he had played truant as a boy, hiding in 
the Douglas dining-room. 


GILLESPIE 


483 


His sleep was broken that night with dreams of a 
peerless presence, whose radiance stood out sharply 
against the background of his mother’s life. In his 
sleep her face floated before him, hovering, a vision of 
light, upon a wilderness. It was a holy harbour for his 
misery. Her soul was the guest of heaven. When he 
awoke in the morning the rain was whispering on the 
window-pane. The sound of her voice returned singing 
the haunting Gaelic air of last night. It mingled with 
the voice of the rain in the fragrance of the wet dayspring ; 
it bridged the years of heartache and weariness, and led 
him into a valley of dreams. The melody was a gladness 
dripping out of her being upon him in balm. He was 
perhaps, never so happy as on that morning. Again he 
heard the song ; again saw the light upon her brow ; her 
eyes like a deer’s, soft and limpid with gentle fire. She 
had had a red rose in the cleft of her breasts. Last 
night, as he had watched its rise and fall, its scent mingled 
with the frankincense of her hair. 

Day followed day, bringing to him the torture and 
secret joy of love. One day he saw her in Harbour Street ; 
watched the swing of her lithe figure, the flutter of her 
dress till she disappeared beyond the police station. 
Something ineffable went with her ; and when she faded 
off the street he saw nothing but dreariness, backed by 
grey cold hills and a sullen sea. A golden light had 
vanished across bald Brieston. He rarely spoke to her. 
When he did address her, things of the least significance 
became enlarged. He was under a spell in her presence, 
and his heart would leap up when she spoke to him even 
casually. He felt his answers flat, his language stupid. 
On the other hand, he remembered her words and phrases 
which would recur to him involuntarily and at the 
strangest times. He wrote secret verses. His first 
effort was to paint in words the meshed sunlight in her 


484 


GILLESPIE 


hair. He used the most stilted epithets — cherry lips, 
snowy neck, and the like. Once or twice he felt he began 
well with a line or even a couplet, but could go no farther 
— as on the occasion when he sang of a gold cross which 
she wore suspended by a thin gold chain around her 
neck. His emotions were beating as with manacled 
hands against an adamantine wall of expression, out of 
which he could not carve the fine jewels of words. But 
he found a lively pleasure in being thus to himself a 
pedlar of dreams. 

He was troubled at the swiftness with which the days 
passed. He had shown her West Loch Brieston and its 
glen, the vista of the Loch beyond Muir head Farm, and 
that terrible shore beyond the “ Ghost ” where Iain had 
been drowned. The tears welled in her eyes, and she put 
her hand in his as with the appeal of a child. The timid 
fragility of her face took his heart by storm. They walked 
home to the “ Ghost ” hand in hand in silence, their full 
hearts beating against each other, and unutterable yearning 
stirring in the dusk as with angels’ wings, and weaving 
around them a holy spell. On that night Barbara dis- 
covered that the thought of him had been constantly 
with her, lying upon her heart like a dew-drop on the 
petal of a flower, and waiting for the dawn to open the 
flower. Noiselessly like dew he had slipped in, and she 
found him seated in the heart of her being she knew not 
how. 

The following day he took her to the Castle. They 
had come up from wandering idly in the aisles of derelict 
ships upon the beach, where in this sea-cathedral each 
had dreamed of love, and in which Eoghan had felt blow 
upon him that spirit of our youth which breaks in with 
its haunting face upon the sudden clear window of 
consciousness. The savour of reaped things was in the 
air. Schoolboys tramped in from the country laden with 


GILLESPIE 


485 


brambles and pillow-slips full of nuts, and gave to the 
town an atmosphere of mellow things. The sight of 
all this saddened Eoghan, because it recalled Iain, with 
whose loss was mingled a sense of the pitiableness of 
his mother’s life. He sat plucking mournfully at the 
grass beneath the Castle wall. 

“ What’s wrong, Eoghan ? ” she asked tenderly. 

He said that the beauty of the autumn evening cast 
a spell of sadness upon him ; it brought back Iain and old 
nutting days. 

44 Is there not sadness at the heart of everything, 
Eoghan ? I think, when I look at grandad’s eyes, that 
life is built upon sorrow.” His hand sought hers, and 
held it. 44 I remember a friend of mine in Dunoon telling 
me of the feeling she had when she sent her wee boy 
to school. In her dreams she used to hear him con his 
lessons.” 

44 What of it ? ” he asked. 

44 1 don’t understand it quite, but I think I know. 
She told me it gave her heartache. It was the beginning 
of the weary struggle in life in which the mother can’t 
help.” 

44 In so young a thing ! ” he answered bitterly. 44 If 
this is the way from the beginning, is God not playing 
with us ? ” He felt a sense of shame as soon as he had 
spoken. He was a traitor to Mr. Kennedy, and added 
hurriedly that he must introduce her to that silver old 
man. 

44 No,” she said earnestly, ignoring his offer. 44 He 
is not playing with us. Grandad says it is because He 
has a big reward in store for us.” Her eyes shone. 

44 Ah, Barbara ! ” — he caressed her hand — 44 1 believe 
you.” 

44 But don’t you believe more than me, Eoghan, dear ? ” 

He thrilled at the evangelist’s endearing word. 


486 


GILLESPIE 


“ I can’t say.” The moment’s mood of despondence 
left his face. “ God chooses the beautiful and the good 
for His revelation.” Reverently he kissed her hand. 
Nearer and nearer those two souls were drawing, as out 
of a vast deep. Their eyes rested tenderly upon each 
other ; they ceased speaking ; their lips smiled. The 
evening smoke hung in the windless air upon the roofs of 
the town below, and on the Muirhead road across the 
Harbour the telegraph wires ran like gold in the evening 
light. A sound of larks behind them in the south-west 
fell in a cascade of song. The bleating of flocks died 
away on the hill. It aroused to a sudden enraptured 
thrill a single bird, whose melody mingled with the 
’plaining of faint shore-water, and the lowing of homeward 
cattle in Muirhead across the Harbour. 

“ How quiet and serene it is ! ” she murmured. She 
felt herself in a house not made with hands. By mental 
telepathy this feeling was dimly conveyed to him. He 
leaned towards her, gazing deeply into the darkening 
wells of her eyes. 

“ I love you, Barbara.” Again the old sensation 
rushed over him that he was speaking out of a far dream 
with a voice not his own, as on the night when he told 
his father that Iain was drowned. Her face swam up 
before him, inexpressibly precious. Hands tender and 
compelling out of that dreamland were upon him, and 
he put out his arms, gathered her to himself, and kissed 
her upturned mouth again and again. From his eyelids 
he saw the down glimmering on her cheek and neck, and, 
leaning down, kissed her neck beneath the chin-bone. 
She answered with a crooning sound and an upward 
look full of incommunicable tenderness — the look of one 
who has found a pillow and peace after long wayfaring. 
Aloft in the grey church on the hill a liquid bell rang 
the hour. The booming sounds were young as with the 


GILLESPIE 


487 


vigour of new love. High up in the still evening air 
the sound carolled, pealing its long lin-lan-lone, drifting 
over the roofs to the old grey Castle like angels’ feathers 
falling upon them, celestial snowflakes drifting down in 
soothing waves of rest. Its pulsing in unison with his 
heart seemed to stir her hair and weave a fragrance about 
her. His mind became tinged with sadness; he heard 
the music whispering to him. “ Oh, sea-bells of magic 
foam ; Oh, land-bells of golden dreams, how often have 
you called to me with the tongue of a young twilight 
spirit, speaking across the sorrow and the lost effort 
and the illusion of the years, mysterious, yet familiar, 
burdened with the beatitude and the grief of love. Is 
there not sadness at the heart of everything ? Ring on, 
ring on for ever, lest the magic fade and the dream-light 
die, and the sorrow come. . . The last lullaby note 
melted away in the darkening sky, dying, as if love 
were bleeding out its life and the drops were falling, 
falling. . . . Her face was childishly wan and small 
against his shoulder; her gaze dumb upon his face. 
She seemed about to cry; her lips quivered and trembled. 
He tightened his clasp about her in an anguish of solicitude, 
and she nestled, lamb -like. The birds flitted to their 
nests in the ivy of the Castle; silence flowed down like 
a grey river; the two heads leaned to each other; the 
faces caressed each other; the two mouths met in a 
lingering kiss ; and the silent music of love beat around 
them as from white birds singing in their breasts. She 
looked up smiling with bedewed eyes. 

“ The pain has gone from your eyes, dear,” she whis- 
pered like a mother, and the maternal note nigh broke 
his heart. Hand in hand they arose. Eastward above 
them towered the looming masonry, its huge black bulk 
silhouetted against the moon- whitened sky. In the west 
the church spire soared over Brieston, and was pricked 


488 


GILLESPIE 


out needle-wise against a clear background of amber. 
Beneath the first faint stars they walked across the 
reaped fields, the multitudinous wings of silver-grey doves 
brooding around them. And out of the dungeon and 
the Douglas dining-room her heart was crying, the old, 
old baby brownies and little folk were stealing to play 
their pranks in the moon and dance upon the green grass 
where they had been sitting. He was chanting : 

“ Far away beyond the sunset skies, 

Where the true love never, never dies . . .” 

She looked up timidly. His eyes were fixed on the deep 
crepuscular west with a rapt look. The peace of that 
over-arching immensity of colour had entered his soul, 
dissipating the fever of life. From the height of a glowing 
third heaven he was gazing down at life’s turmoil, its 
sadness, its darkness, its evil. Suddenly he turned and 
looked back at the lofty bastioned wall dark against 
the sky. It endured. Its makers had gone empty- 
handed into the unknown. 

“ Barbara, what is the meaning of life ? ” he asked, in a 
mournful tone. 

“To love and be loved,” she replied, with glad quickness. 

The answer cleared his troubled mind. Had there 
been love and to spare those fire-blackened walls behind 
had never been built. The fibre of his spirit responded 
to the eternal truth of the answer, and the girl saw tears 
in the corners of his eyes. Her look became a gaze of 
worship. 

She wanted her grandfather to know that she was loved ; 
yet for to-night she would cherish her secret as a peculiar 
treasure in the recesses of her heart. When she dis- 
missed Eoghan at the door of the “ Ghost ” he strode along 
as if walking on air. The salt and pungency of happy 


GILLESPIE 


489 


youth rioted in his veins ; the touch of her hand was 
tingling in his palm ; the tones of her voice flowed about 
him in enveloping sweetness. He felt infinite power 
seething through him. The leaves of the trees beyond 
the “ Ghost ” ’ on the burn-side were tossed up in fevered 
drifts of vague magnificence in the night wind, and fell 
with a jibbering sound on the decks of the derelicts lying 
on the beach beneath the “ Ghost.” To him they were 
fingers of commiseration touching the broken binnacles, 
as the delicate fingers of a loving woman would rest 
upon the blind eyes of her lover. This multitudinous 
gold spread enfolding wings across the shattered decks 
which shall no more go out beneath the steering stars. 

The villas on the beach-road stood out white and sharp 
in the moon, and over them the leaves whirled in joyous 
mad mirth. He saw the gables and roofs climb up in 
the dim whiteness to a bacchic place in the clouds. A 
cathedral, vast and dim, took the air amidst chiming 
bells and a dream -drift of burnished leaves. Beneath 
his feet the fret of leaves was like the motion of the 
wounded feet of naked children shuffling along trailing 
blood. But what was that to him ? His blood was a 
flood of fire. He ground his heels into the road as he 
danced along, swung his arms tempestuously, and had 
to throttle a mad desire to shout aloud. He brought 
down his fist upon the door of a wooden shed, exulting 
in the pain, and clenched his hands till the hot blood 
was about to ooze from his finger-nails. He laughed 
exultingly, and flung wide his arms to enclose her in a 
deathless embrace. A man passed him. He ground his 
teeth. “ Fool, fool ; I wonder if he heard.” He walked 
forward vehemently, and as he careered through the 
Square he thought : “ It is great, great ; what a girl ! 
what love ! ” and so stormed home on the crest of a 
fiercely-rushing wave, thinking of how he had taken her 


490 


GILLESPIE 


face between his hands, peered down into her eyes, and 
kissed her on the mouth. 

Hitherto when Barbara awoke in the morning she 
remembered her sense of dependence, and that she was 
an orphan. Now when she opened her eyes comfort 
came to her with the sun, as she brought forth the jewel 
of her love from its casket. She subscribed to the public 
library, and read the love poems of the English language. 

“ On such a night . . she rolled the witching words 
on her tongue. In church she surreptitiously read the 
Song of Solomon, while overhead Stuart denounced 
sins of omission and commission; and the face of her 
lover floated before her. She lay on the burn-side at the 
“ Ghost ” on sunny days waiting for Eoghan, and watching 
the placid sea from her eyelids as she wandered into a 
lotus land rich with humming hives of Hibyla honey. 
He and she were content, and held the world as content 
along with them. Steeped in their new rapture, their 
eyes raining happiness on each other, they saw naught 
else, saw not that his mother was sinking deeper into her 
shadowland. Each of them, mother and lovers, clutched 
at shadows, strove at the bolts of the doors behind which 
lay the glory of life — that dim, grey Never-Neverland 
whose guardian doors so many stain with the blood of 
their heart. 

It was two days before he was to leave for Glasgow 
to sit at the entrance examination to the University. She 
stood in the door of the “ Ghost,” her hair blown upon 
her forehead, and watched him disappear up the road. 
Presently she entered the kitchen, her cheeks glowing 
from the frosty air. The old man was seated in the big 
chair at the fire, half sunk in the gloom and dancing 
shadows. 


GILLESPIE 


491 


“ Grandad ! ” 

“ Is that you, m’eudail ? ” He roused himself from his 
reverie. 

She stepped over to him, taking off her hat. 

“ Have you been lonely ? ” 

“ No, mo chdridhe.” He had picked up those Gaelic 
phrases of tenderness and pronounced them with a 
Lowland accent. She sat down on the edge of the chair, 
her fingers playing nervously with her hat. The old man 
roused himself. 

“ Hae ye been up by ? ” 

“ No, grandad, I’ve been with Eoghan;” and suddenly 
she put her arms round his neck. 

“ Oh, grandad, I’m so very, very glad you brought 
me here ! I — I want to tell you,” she stammered, “ to 

tell you I love you so. He — he kissed me ” She 

buried her cheek in the thick, dark, curly hair of his head. 
Reticence between them was at an end. For a long 
minute there was silence, broken only by the wheeze 
of the sign without. Then he spoke in a prayer : 

“ The lovingkindness of the Lord is very great.” 

The girl was inexpressibly touched. Youth the heritor 
of life and age the bequeather sat united. A profound 
sigh rose through the deepening shadows. Who was it 
from — age or youth ; age which remembers, and whose 
old distresses, lying like dry tinder, flare up at the spark 
of the kinship of joy and sorrow which a word can bring 
to birth ; or youth, the flood of whose ripe experiences 
disarms the pangs of yesterday, and makes it tremble 
before the haunting possibilities of to-morrow ? The 
sigh that is born in the shadows — is it from age or from 
youth ? The girl rose hurriedly and lit the lamp in the 
window. 


CHAPTER VI 


Eoghan refused to go into the shop though his father 
cajoled : “ Ye’ll hae the business some day.” 

“ I would not take it though it was a hundred times 
as valuable.” 

This blow paralysed Gillespie, who imagined his son 
was bewitched by that snuff-taking dotard the school- 
master. Gillespie, having reached that period in life 
when men of property or affairs consider the making of 
their will, was agitated by vague fears. What would 
become of his business when he died ? He lashed out at 
an elusiveness which baffled him. Had he founded a 
house after all upon sand ? The dupe of a subtlety which 
ensnared him, he went to consult his wife, whom he found 
dovering at the fire, her eyes deep with melancholy, and 
eased his wrath by arraigning her on the sole evidence 
of an empty glass. 

“ It’s no’ enough appearingly that you spend the siller 
boozin’ your eyes blin’ ; but here’s Eoghan noo wantin’ 
to go to Coallege, an’ him ready to step into the business.” 

Her hands wandered aimlessly over her lap. “I’m 
a weary wife ; a weary, weary wife. I was in the College 
in Edinbro’ ; but noo I’ve a deep, deep water to wade.” 

“ Muckle good the College did ye,” sneered Gillespie; 
“ ye can neither gang to kirk or mercat noo; ” and he 
flung out of the kitchen, imagining that his wife was in 
the conspiracy to baulk him. There was only one way 
to keep his face with his son, and that was to let him go. 

“You an’ me, Eoghan, hae to redd up things a wee,” 
492 


GILLESPIE 


493 


he said, and thrust some gold into his son’s hands. “ Tak’ 
guid care o’ the bawbees,” he cried jocularly, but with a 
twinge at the heart. 

Eoghan gazed on the sovereigns glittering in his palm. 

“ What’s this for? ” 

“ It’s for your collegin’.” 

“ I thought you refused to let me go.” 

‘‘ Huts ! ” he cried, “ your daft mither’s fair set on 
havin’ her son College bred.” 

Even to a soul-hardened Scotsman College is a land 
of wonder and romance, and Gillespie had his own quiet 
pride in the venture. Eoghan, however, thinking of 
his mother, hoped that his College career would stimulate 
her interest anew in life. She was failing in health, was 
lack-lustre and dispirited ; she let things drift, and had a 
passion for wandering about the house, aimlessly rum- 
maging among things of old time, whose history she 
would recite with infinite repetitions in a half-maudlin 
way, weeping over treasures brought from Lonend, 
especially faded photographs of the dead, some of whom 
she imagined to be alive. The furniture of the parlour 
was that of her wedding-day, and she recalled her glory 
as a bride, and peopled the room with the faces that had 
been there. She would ramble on, talking loosely and 
vaguely, beginning a remark and finishing in the middle 
of a half-expressed idea. Eoghan pored on her expression- 
less face, which to him was like a worn effigy on a coin. 
Her aimless hand at her hair accentuated her listlessness 
to an intolerable degree. If his departure for College 
would deepen her interest in life, that in itself would be 
sufficient to drive him as with whips to the University. 
A wild hope seized him that here, perhaps, the doors of 
redemption would open. She would not dishonour her 
College-bred son. Mr. Kennedy had advised him in 
one or two ways. “You must find the money for her 


494 


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yourself ; bring her in the stuff if need be, and keep her 
at home.” At home ! was she not always at home ? 
Alas ! the eyes that looked on Barbara saw naught else. 
But Mr. Kennedy was mad to advise him so. Instead, 
he watched to rob her, and every chance copper he picked 
up. He had now about a pound and did not know what 
to do with the hoard. “ It will soon amount to thirty 
pieces of silver,” he thought sadly. A torrent of wild 
words burst out of him as he told Mr. Kennedy of the 
money. He had been brought into the world without 
being questioned ; had he not the right to save himself 
from this shameful connection by going to one of the 
colonies ? “ But what can you do there % you have neither 

trade nor profession, and you are unfit for the hard manual 
labour of these parts.” And Eoghan, cursed with an 
imbalanced imagination, saw himself creep up from the 
foreign quays into vast streets of stone, full of strange 
faces — pitched headlong into the roaring wheels of 
modern civilisation with its cynicism and selfishness. 
It was a dreary fatality. He saw himself an unimportant 
speck tossed about for a little, his pride congealed into 
pain. If he escaped his environment, could he escape 
the shame ? That was indestructible, and would become 
gigantic on a foreign soil. “ I here, and she there, the 
greater castaway; ” and with shame rigged as a dogged 
pack upon his back, his mournful face would vanish 
in the sea of isolation, and the chariot-wheels of life 
would roar over the head of a wanderer irrecoverably 
lost. 

“ Never cast a woman over ; if you fall, fail together.” 
The eyes of the schoolmaster looked out upon him, eyes 
of hungry sorrow, transfigured in that moment by the 
tenderness of forty silent years of soul famine. Eoghan 
felt he was in the presence of another sufferer ; and born 
of the whirlwind and the furnace of grief came the note 


GILLESPIE 


495 


of purging pain and expiatory wisdom. “ If you fall, 
fall together.” But the schoolmaster had perhaps been at 
fault. Eoghan’s mother certainly was ; and he answered 
sullenly, “ I have done nothing wrong.” The sword of 
justice was in his hand, facing foursquare to guard the 
Eden of his life; but with the schoolmaster’s eyes upon 
him the sword wheeled upon himself, lambent with wrath. 
Beneath those penetrating eyes he felt he was making 
an effort to defend himself; and to make an effort has 
not in it the large serenity of the pure at heart, who stand 
before Pilate. Rage and writhe as he would, the scorch 
of the brandished sword was shrivelling up his selfishness, 
and blinding him with its radiance. Lacerated, the 
caitiff in him moaned doggedly his apologia : “ I’ve done 
nothing wrong ; am I to suffer ? ” And the schoolmaster’s 
one smiting word, plucked from the mouth of Pilate, fell 
like a hammer blow upon his soul : “ £ This Man hath 
done nothing amiss; I find no fault in the Man; ’ ” and 
in front of the face of the evoked Christ — a face hewn 
with the chisel of grief, yet glowing with an eternal 
assurance — Eoghan began to sink in an immensity of 
despair. His wail rang through the open window across 
the silence of the leaves : “ I cannot suffer the shame. 
Oh, we are lost, lost ! ” 

The schoolmaster touched him lovingly. “ Child ! 
child ! you have made your grief too big for you.” And 
this old man, who for a sin of his own youth had walked 
through hell and was homeless upon earth, watched with 
a new speechless misery the anguish of the boy, and saw 
no hope for either in the world. “ I can suffer for my 
own fault, but how can he pay the penalty for another’s ?” 
was his weary thought, going round and round in his 
brain as a horse goes round a circus -ring, as the night 
passed silently before his window, and the Morning Star 
arose upon the pictured face of the dead woman of his 


496 


GILLESPIE 


dreams. Wretched man ! he had been to the boy a 
schoolmaster to the very end, and he shuddered when he 
recalled the boy’s words : 4 4 I’ll only have peace when I 
hold her dead body in my arms.” 

Here at last was the solution of the problem which had 
baffled them. 4 4 Your mither’s fair set on hevin’ her son 
College bred.” Gillespie’s lie, spoken to save his face, was 
hugged closely by his son, who divined the news to be a 
door of redemption, and one which, so close to the heart 
of the old scholar, would be as welcome to Mr. Kennedy as 
to himself. He must go and tell him. He had already 
said good-bye, but all the same he would go. Besides, he 
had promised to introduce Barbara, and it must be done 
this evening. She responded eagerly, and they set out 
behind Brieston by the way of the Castle. The moon was 
like a taper in the sky when they entered, by three moss- 
grown stone steps, the large garden which surrounded the 
school-house. The lights of Brieston twinkled below, and 
the moon was on the Loch, a long bar of silver. As they 
walked over the grass beneath the fruit trees they heard 
a window being pushed up. Firelight alone glowed 
within the room. 

Mr. Kennedy, pondering upon the dead in his book, 
had heard a voice, deep-toned and vibrant, calling these 
words as from an infinite distance : 44 Thy brother shall 
rise again.” He lifted an alert head, and raising the 
window listened; but the silence of the garden and 
the fragrant night remained unbroken. 44 Strange, 
that,” he murmured; 44 the only person who ever said it 
was Jesus.” He peered through the trees where the 
moonlight glimmered among the trunks with a grey sheen. 
An Unseen Presence passed among the leaves, going upon 
the tops like a gentle wind. Suddenly the watchers 
beneath saw a white head leaning out and a pallid face 


GILLESPIE 


497 


turned upwards to the skies, and two hands were stretched 
out in supplication. The girl felt ashamed, as if she were 
spying on something sacred. “ Let us go, dear,” she 
whispered, and clung to Eoghan; but before he could 
answer these mournful words fell on their ears : “ Hast 
thou called ? O Thou who walkest the darkness like 
light and movest as the wind before morning in Thy 
breathing, pardon my sin, sanctify my life, make me 
pure, and grant me Thy peace.” The hands remained 
outstretched. To the watchers a halo shone around the 
saintly face. “ 0 Great Spirit of the stars and the sea, 
of the earth and the soul of man, be with him who is as 
my son. Rend the darkness about his feet; suffer him 
not to lose hope ; amplify his aspirations ; protect his 
place; safeguard his destiny.” 

Eoghan shook like the column of water on a fall. The 
Spirit of the Unseen passed as breathing upon the face 
of the night, and the tree-tops trembled and were still. 
Far off towards the isles the sea murmured an antiphone, 
and an influence of heaven rained down from the velvet 
depths of the sky. 

The girl’s lips quivered as her hand stole into Eoghan’s. 
“ Amen, dear, Amen,” she whispered. 

Eoghan, who felt himself sinking through a great 
deep into immortal peace, was unable to answer. The 
heart of the night had ceased its beating, the stars their 
wanderings; there was a vast listening void. Far off 
through the gloom there arose the sob of the sea made 
majestic by its unutterable meaning ; and as its plangent 
note melted away the white head was withdrawn and 
the window was closed. An emeritus angel had vanished 
from their sight, and they awakened as if they had stepped 
back on to the grass from the vestibule of heaven. 

Eoghan shook himself. “ Let us go in.” 

“ No ! no ! no ! ” she whispered. “ I have met him. 

KK 


498 GILLESPIE 

Oh, Eoghan, Eoghan, I wish I were good like that old 
man.” 

“ 0 Thou that walkest the darkness like light, make 
her pure and grant her Thy peace.” He was praying 
earnestly in silence for his mother, as the children of love’s 
wondrous morning, saddened and sublimated, passed 
away from that lonely house, and from one who within 
stood gazing in the firelight at the photograph of a girl. 
He turned from the photograph, and closed the MS. in 
which he had lived with the noble obscure dead. 

“ I am too sad to read to-night,” he sighed. It was 
always the same book — of Dante and his Beatrice. The 
dead poet and he had a tragedy in common in the name 
Beatrice. “ I shall send in my resignation to-morrow,” 
he muttered. A shadow passed across his face as he 
thought of this house which he would have to leave. 
The Board were anxious to give it to Mr. Campion. 
“ This sense of oppression is making me stupid,” he 
spoke again, and began pottering at the fire with the 
poker. The fire-light leapt on the covers of* his books 
as if giving them a soul. He sank into his armchair 
amidst the shadows which were gathering between the 
fire and his bookcase. In a few minutes he was asleep. 
The head of snow fell away ; the breathing, deep at first, 
became easy and gentle, and a long sigh quavered through 
the room, which was rapidly growing dark beyond the 
fire-light. In the flickering light his thin, worn face looked 
beautiful and serene in its marmoreal calm. A little 
noise of air expelled from his lungs broke the silence, 
and the slack figure in the chair stiffened. A deep hush 
lay upon the house and the garden. A little scurry of 
sea-wind sobbed in the boughs without ; a patter of leaves 
on the path ; a flame hissed and darted up in the coals ; 
the tick of a clock sounded loudly in the hall ; the flame 
perished in the grate; darkness and shadows fell upon 


GILLESPIE 


499 


the old man. In a little while the great, solemn, autumnal 
moon stole in at the window and touched the silent face 
and kissed the head of snow. 

Beneath that moon the lovers were leaning upon the 
cannon beyond the 4 4 Ghost,” and Eoghan was telling 
Barbara how Mr. Kennedy had said good-bye. “ Don’t 
be impulsive ” — Barbara felt the wisdom of that — “ work 
steadily ; think more of truth than of the laurel ; be frugal, 
and don’t worry. Never be mean or unkind or cruel; 
and read a portion of the gospel every night : it is the 
greatest book in the world. If ever you are in a diffi- 
culty, use me. I have some money I don’t need. May 
a rich blessing attend upon you.” He went up the path, 
stumbling slightly, his hands clasped behind him, his 
head sunk forward on his breast, making his lean shoulder- 
blades to stand out. An autumn leaf fell upon him as 
he passed. Eoghan, watching the drooping white head, 
saw the leaf slide off to the ground. He thought of 
blood upon the silver breast of a dove. 

They took a fond farewell of each other that night 
at the door of the “ Ghost ” rather than to-morrow in 
the broad day. 

“ Tell me again,” she pleaded, “ before you go.” 

“ I love you, Barbara, beyond all women.” 

She smiled bravely. “ I wanted to hear it again 
before you left. Good-bye; good-bye.” She flung her 
arms around his neck: “Good-night; good-bye till my 
eyes cannot see you,” and kissing him fiercely she pushed 
him away and vanished indoors. Presently she re- 
appeared and watched his figure go up the road in the 
moon, till it disappeared where the road bends round 
to the Pier. She stood gazing at the lunar light upon 
the empty road. 


CHAPTER VII 


Mrs. Strang had acquired the habit of “ stravaigin’.” 
She visited the shops and ordered unlimited quantities 
of goods, saying she had abundance of money in the 
bank, and jewels at home as fine as the crown jewels of 
London. At first she used to drift home with an armful 
of parcels, but Gillespie promptly returned the stuff. 
Thenceforth the shopkeepers took her orders but did 
not fulfil them. Some of them pitied her, some joked 
behind her back. Topsail went out to search for her, 
chiefly that Eoghan might be spared the sight of his 
mother in such a condition. When Topsail was piloting 
her mistress home, cajoling and coaxing her by turns, 
she would interpose her own person betwixt her mistress 
and “ the men ” at the corners, and betrayed none of 
that stupidity which one feels in steering a drunken person 
in the street. 

But Topsail was busy to-night, revelling in a welter 
of socks and shirts, the choicest of which she laid aside 
with the eye of a hawk, along with pots of jam, fresh 
butter, and other delicacies from the shop which she had 
demanded for Eoghan’s bag. These rites were being 
performed within the holy place of the Coffin. To College, 
among the professors ! She conceived them as gods, 
among whom none save men of great learning and nerve 
would venture. 

Jeck the Traiveller was pressed into service. “ It’s 
me ’ill be in the bonnie pickle, up a’ night sortin’ his 
clothes,” she said to him gleefully at the close-mouth, 
500 


GILLESPIE 


501 


with her arms full of clothes taken from the back green. 
“ I’ve to iron them yet.” 

Jeck made no response and Topsail was irritated. 

“ Look, ye gomeril ” — she nodded to the top of the 
bundle — “ that shirt’s goin’ to the College.” 

Jeck stared, ignorant of etiquette. 

“ Hev’ ye noathin’ to say, Jeck? It’s goin’ to the 
Coallege where they learn to be doctors and ministers.” 

Jeck saluted the garment with phlegm. 

44 Ach ! ” she cried, “ it’s easy to see the lik’ o’ you never 
had a Coallege eddication, ye dumbfoondered stirk.” 

“ Thank God! ” he ejaculated fervently; “ what wad 
a man wi’ a wudden leg want wi’ a College eddication ? I 
couldna sclim the pulpit stairs.” 

Topsail’s wrath evaporated. 

44 I’ll bate ye a thoosan’ poun’, Jeck, when the waen’s 
a minister, he’ll preach that bubbly Jock Stuart blin’.” 

Jeck acquiesced, and she of her grace informed him that 
on the morrow he would be privileged to carry the wonder- 
ful bag to the Pier. She had twenty commendations, 
and a final warning — if anything came over the bag he 
need never show his face again. 

In the meanwhile her unguarded mistress appeared at 
Mrs. Galbraith’s door, after having visited several shops 
and houses. She had two red carnations in the hand with 
which she knocked. 

“ I’ve brought ye a bunch o’ flowers, Marget.” Her 
head had a stupid, listless angle. 

With eyes of contempt Mrs. Galbraith took the flowers. 
“ If Mr. Strang has robbed me of my garden I’m glad to 
see his wife makes up for it.” 

This was a new tone for Mrs. Galbraith, who had no 
longer any use for this broken instrument. To under- 
stand this it is necessary to trace the mental development 
or rather the retrogression of this arrogant, strong-wdlled 


502 


GILLESPIE 


woman. She was in some respects a tragic figure, with 
her fine intellect prostituted to plans of cunning, and to a 
perversity which, afflicting her with a moral nausea in 
its earlier stages, was founded on loyalty to her husband’s 
memory, which she continued to revere, and which had 
proved an insuperable barrier to Lonend’s matrimonial 
schemes. The memory of him kept her chaste as though 
he were alive. He had found release ; she was in a prison 
cell, enduring pain and agony mingled with an intense 
brooding upon and yearning for revenge. She was 
racked with remorse that that vengeance yet went 
hungry. In spite of her rash promise to marry Lonend 
she swore to herself in the secrecy of night never to 
marry again. Men had brought upon her all the suffering 
she endured. They were rank egotists, ruthless liars, 
perjurers, murderers, who, in spite of Christianity, made 
slaves of women, beginning in slight, insinuating ways, 
seizing every advantage of woman’s pity and sympathy, 
and relying on her mercy, till they had her beneath their 
heel. She read anew into the original attitude of Jesus 
Christ towards women. The half of His ethic was a 
championing of their cause and claims. More than half 
the ignominy, the disgrace and shame of the world they 
bore, and often in secret, for the sake of their name, 
their family, and their home. They compromised them- 
selves, not out of vice, but simply to please men, who take 
advantage of the ease with which they succumb to the 
male influence. Man had taught woman bestiality and 
then visited her sins pitilessly upon her, while he de- 
manded tacitly or professedly for himself the greatest- 
latitude. He had not eradicated from his nature the 
disposition of his savage ancestors to regard woman as 
a piece of chattels. She recognised that woman was 
capricious, prone to trifling iniquities, petty falsehood, 
and little acts of vindictiveness, due to the predominance 


GILLESPIE 


503 


of the child in her nature ; but she had rarely the courage 
to attempt a great crime. In such enormities she simply 
yielded to the suggestions of men, was instigated by fear 
or terror, or blinded by love. Woman adhered with a 
criminal, dog-like devotion to men, refusing to betray 
their most brutal secrets, even if this would rid her of 
an existence of persecution. This is because of her 
desperate loyalty to honour, a virtue which is a toy in the 
hands of most men. A woman will sacrifice everything, 
even life itself, which often is a slow martyrdom, to satisfy 
the claims of her family. The law, which is made by 
men and administered by them, had no understanding 
of, or sympathy for, her position. The prisons were full 
of women martyrs. 

Again and again she had revolved these thoughts, 
and towered up strong in pride that she was the sworn 
antagonist of the worst man in Brieston, whom to destroy 
was to stamp out a leprosy that was gnawing on the 
vitals of the town. She was the militant defender of 
her sex; the avenger of her fallen house. Till Gillespie 
was buried beneath the broken lintel-stone of that house 
she would have no peace of soul, no absolution for an 
unfruitful widowhood. She would gloat in that day 
when she could carve Gillespie’s shameful epitaph upon 
the recumbent lintel-stone of Muirhead farmhouse. 
Though of late she had confided in Lonend, she would 
trust no one but herself as she ruthlessly demoralised Mrs. 
Strang, in the hope of striking at her impervious husband 
through the ruins of his wife. She grudged Lonend the 
least grain of that revenge which it was her constant 
dream she would evoke upon Gillespie Strang. In all 
this she was capable of the deepest sentiments of tender- 
ness and charity, and was a chief favourite with the 
barefooted children of the Back Street. On Sundays 
her kitchen was a private school, in which she taught 


504 


GILLESPIE 


churchless bairns the Bible, and induced them to learn 
by offering to the cleverest a monthly prize of a toy or 
a little illustrated book. 

Enraged that Gillespie Strang yet stood immune, she 
did not perceive that she herself indulged in a vile crime 
at the instigation of a man dead in his grave, and was 
committing greater folly than that of the unfortunate 
of her sex whose offences were inspired by living men. 
This judge of men imagined herself the protectress of 
her sex by waging war on one man over the battle- 
field of his wife’s body and soul. Her personality 
dominated Mrs. Strang to such a degree that she believed 
she could induce Gillespie’s wife to poison him ; but her 
spirit quailed before that, and at this period of her life 
revolted from such a consummation. She had gloated 
for years over the idea of vengeance, which had passed 
from being a stern duty to an exquisite pleasure. As she 
had given it birth she nursed it as a babe, and it became 
a companion, a solace, a fierce joy. Were Gillespie to 
die, were he even to be murdered, her life would be robbed 
of its most agreeable passion, and her imperious temper 
would have detested the conqueror death. She preferred 
a species of slow torture for Gillespie. Her ideal was to 
see him come forth from prison begging in rags at her 
door. She imagined a scene in which in that hour she 
fed a starving dog in the rain, but with a sneer shut her 
door in the face of a Gillespie worn out with hunger, 
cold, and misery. 

By no means featherheaded, she had reached that 
mental state in which her joy was not full unless she 
could disclose her idea of revenge to some other. She 
made a confidant of Lonend, who at once informed her 
of Gillespie’s transaction in Dunoon and of the letter 
which McAskill held as proof of his guilt. Old Mr. Strang 
or Barbara would have to take action against the pirate. 


GILLESPIE 


505 


“ It’s no’ at the boil yet,” said Lonend, his eyes gleaming 
with the hidden lust to destroy ; “ he’ll be up before the 
Shirra on another chairge as weel ; he’s embezzlin’ the 
Poor Rates.” Last year he, Lonend, had supplied money 
to six poor people of Brieston unaccustomed hitherto 
to pay these rates, offering them as much again when 
they had paid this money to Gillespie as rates and taxes. 
They had been given no receipt. “ It’s been goin’ on 
wi’ others for years,” laughed Lonend. “A’ we want 
is a squint o’ his books. McAskill’s workin’ the oracle. 
We’ll hae the blood-sucker up on twa coonts. It’s the 
jyle for him this time, an’ then good-bye to Gillespie 
Strang when he wins oot. The old men o’ Brieston that 
hae noathin’ to do but tek’ a walk ’ill hoast at him when he 
comes oot o’ jyle wi’ his hair cut.” 

Lonend’s excitement impregnated Mrs. Galbraith’s 
blood, who saw her dream about to be realised. Yet 
she feared Gillespie’s cunning. “ He’s as slippery as an 
eel,” she said doubtfully. 

“ He’ll no’ can wriggle oot o’ this, by Goad — sheer 
embezzlement an’ fraud. I’ve pleughed lang an har- 
rowed lang, an’ noo, by the Lord, the scythe’s ready 
for the hairst.” 

Thus Mrs. Galbraith had no need any longer for the 
broken instrument at her door who was saying, with a 
furtive air of confidence : “ I just took a run up for a 
wee whilie, Marget.” 

“ I’m very sorry, Mrs. Strang,” answered Mrs. Gal- 
braith coldly, opposing the bulk of her form in the door, 
“ but you can’t come in here in this disgraceful state. 
I’m reading an interesting book, the philosophy of Lotze, 
and can’t be disturbed just now. Is it not time you 
were home to milk the cows at Muirhead ? You know 
your husband stole it from me.” There was a cynical 
smile on Mrs. Galbraith’s face as she shut the door. 


506 


GILLESPIE 


Mrs. Strang looked at the inimical wooden wall with 
eyes full of vague wonder. “ Dearie me ! ” she murmured, 
“ I’m gettin’ to be a fair outcast.” 

The veil of kindly night shrouded this shameful 
spectacle, and she reached the door of Mrs. Tosh as the 
taper light of the moon lit the sky. When Mrs. Tosh 
also refused her asylum, vaguely the words “ Muirhead 
Farm ” entered into her consciousness, and she trailed 
wearily up the north road as the moon grew upon the 
bay. As for Mrs. Galbraith, she thrust the carnations 
to her nostrils, sniffed them greedily, and placed them 
in a thin vase with water. 

“ Another trophy from Carthage,” she ejaculated, 
and resumed her book with a smile of satisfaction. 
“ They all come to my door,” she thought. “ Topsail; 
Mrs. Strang ; the next will be Gillespie.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


When Eoghan left Barbara he hurried home to pack 
his books on mathematics, a subject to which he meant 
to give a final revision in Glasgow on the evening before 
the day of the mathematics examination. The town, 
white as snow beneath the moon, lay strung around the 
bay so still that he heard the burn run into the sea, and 
the dying drip of oars in the Harbour mouth. Ahead of 
him at the Quay he saw the figure of a woman, walking 
slowly and heavily. It was his mother. Half-way to 
Muirhead Farm she had retraced her steps, coming to a 
sudden determination to visit the “ Ghost,” and discover 
for herself if Iain were in prison. Then she remembered 
he was on the sea in Gillespie’s steamer, and turned 
homeward. Eoghan saw her trailing like a ship, with 
frayed cordage, that sways and sags across a wintry sea. 
The shame was now abroad in the eyes of men. He 
crouched back in the shadow of the police station wall 
and halted. Her weak feet tottered with silly little 
lurches, and the frill of a white petticoat trailed in the 
mud of the herring guts — the refuse cast of the furnace 
from which Gillespie drew molten gold. The street was 
empty. The church bell rang the hour of eleven as he 
watched her sway up the pavement, hirpling like a 
wounded duck. The beating of his heart was stifling 
him, for the college door of redemption he recognised 
would never open. He became weary of existence. 
Two men came out of a close and began walking rapidly 
towards the Quay. Eoghan was forced to hide behind 

507 


508 


GILLESPIE 


a pile of tree-trunks on the breast wall that awaited ship- 
ment to become railway sleepers. As the men passed 
he heard one of them in the still night say : 

“ It’s Gillespie’s wife ; a gey cauld bed she’s makin’ 
o t. 

Eoghan knew the man, a tailor. His companion 
answered : 

“ She’d sook whisky oot o’ a dirty cloot,” and called 
her by an offensive name. 

They passed on, laughing. The blood tingled in 
Eoghan’s veins. That name ! surely not that ! He 
felt himself going mad. The whole town knew, and 
spoke that obscene name concerning her. He felt like 
a watch-dog before his father’s door that can only whine. 
No ! he could not believe in that name ; it was only 
the loose talk of a fool. But why should he say it ? 
Distraught with fear and shame he crept from his 
shelter, and spying up and down the road, hurried on, 
a wave of anger surging over him. He wished she 
would die. He saw her crossing from the Bank into 
the Square, in the midst of which a large black dog lay 
in the moonlight, as if it were cut out of marble. She 
sheered across to the dog and addressed it. He was now 
in agony lest the Banker’s folk see her. Suddenly she 
attempted to kick the retriever, which gathered itself 
up and trotted away. Hitherto he had conceived her as 
keeping the house in her orgies, which, indeed, so far as 
they came under his observation, had been of rare occur- 
rence. He had pitied her, numbering her in her poor 
state of health with frail old maids with sad faces, who 
sit at home with shawls about their shoulders. Now she 
was flaunting her degradation in the eye of Heaven. 
She laughed mirthlessly at the dog, and trailed across to 
the close, where he found her, standing in its mouth, 
swaying like a stripped tree in a winter’s gale, and saw 


GILLESPIE 509 

with horror that in a drab, swollen face she had a practised, 
soliciting eye. 

“ Get home ! ” he said ; “ get home, for God’s sake, 
out of here ! ” and pushed her roughly by the shoulder. 

She gave him a glance of hatred and slouched away. 
Panting upstairs, she complained of a pain in her back. 
In the midst of the kitchen floor, with a child’s toy in her 
hand, she gazed round furtively. “Ye didn’t notice a 
sixpence? ” she asked; “ I thought I put it in the blue 
bowl. It was your granny’s bowl.” 

The blood was singing in his ears, and leaving his sight 
murky. “Why don’t you stop drinking?” he cried; 
“ you are a disgrace.” He could not look at her. In- 
stead of accepting his challenge she simply acquiesced. 

“ What for ? ” There was a world of weariness in her 
voice. “ Where’s my sixpence ? My inside’s burnin’ like 
a fire; it’s rats that’s eatin’ me. I wish I were dead.” 

“ Death’s maybe at the door, mother,” he answered 
bitterly. 

The word “ mother ” aroused her, and her eyes 
searched his face hungrily. “ I carena if it come ben to 
my fire en’,” she said. 

He felt raw, scorched. “ Oh, mother ! mother ! I 
can never look man or woman in the face again.” 

As he wailed these words she appeared to take cog- 
nisance of him, and the anguish in his voice pierced her 
consciousness. “ Who’s got any right to meddle ye ? ” 
A cunning leer passed over her face. “Let them redd 
up their ain hearthstone first.” Her lapse into the coarse 
dialect of the Back Street marked for him a further 
descent in one who had always been scrupulous about the 
book English, learned in the Edinburgh school. 

“ Have you no pity for me?” he cried, rage breaking 
into his voice. “ I can’t walk in the streets for shame.” 

Her haggard eyes searched his face with a blink of 


510 


GILLESPIE 


understanding. “ Ay ! ay ! ” Her body shook as if a 
sudden wind had blown upon it. “ I’m just an auld hanky 
fou o’ snotters; it’s long since my dancin’ days were 
done.” She folded her hands in a resigned attitude, as 
if awaiting the last stone from the slingers of Destiny. 

Rage deepened within him at her intense egoism, and a 
threatening look came into his eyes. “ You’re killing me 
by inches,” he cried out. 

She was dimly conscious of his anger. “ Dinna flyte 
on me; dinna be angry,” she cajoled. 

“ Angry ! ” he shouted, losing control of himself, and 
striding up and down before her ; “ what pity have you 
got for me ? Between you and my father we’re the byword 
of the place.” 

The mention of “ father ” started a new train of ideas 
in her mind. “ Your father’s a bad man an’ a thief. 
Have I no’ a friend in a’ the world that I can get to live 
in peace ? ” In that moment she suspected her son of 
being in alliance with her husband against her, and the 
idea became fixed in her mind. Her voice went on 
monotonously: “I’m better dead; far better. I was 
sair trachled a’ my days between ye a’ ; farmin’ for him, 
slavin’, hainin’ ; aye keepit frae my ain ; fair trachled 
to death. Am I no’ the bonnie ticket? ” 

His rage ebbed away. The sight of her misery un- 
manned him — her glassy sunken eyes, her hair prematurely 
grey, the crow’s feet and wrinkles under her eyelids like 
furrows of grief. He thought, “ What a wreck ! ” 

“Will you not give over drinking, mother ? ” he 
pleaded. “ You’re breakin’ your own heart as well as 
mine.” 

“ My time for vexin’ ye a’ will siine be by,” she an- 
swered rather cynically, and lurched from him across the 
kitchen into her bedroom. He heard her fumbling in 
the dark and stood baulked, hopelessly at bay. He would 


GILLESPIE 


511 


pack no books on mathematics. What was the use of 
it all ? He heard Topsail in the Coffin wheezing some 
stupid ballad. Why didn’t she shut her mouth, or if 
she did open it, lament ? His father came in, tired from 
a late hour in the office, where he had been dealing with 
returns from the first of his cured herring for the season. 
They had turned out badly, because of a heavy fishing 
all along the East Coast. He betrayed his annoyance in 
his surly face and voice. 

“ Whaur’s a’ thae bitches ? ” he snarled ; “ can a man 
no’ get a bite o’ supper ? ” 

At the sound of his voice his wife came into the 
kitchen. 

“ I’m busy ironin’ Eoghan’s hankies,” she said softly; 
“ he’s going to College.” 

“ Whaur hae ye been stravaigin’ the nicht ? ” said 
Gillespie in a harsh voice, noting her appearance. 

“ I’ve no more mind than them in the grave,” she 
answered. “ I’m Lonen’s daughter ; a respectable 
woman.” She was leaning against the meal barrel. 
Topsail had been baking some bannocks for Eoghan, 
of which he was extremely fond; and the lid of the 
barrel, ill-placed, fell on the floor. 

“ There’s granny’s barrel. I used to be the grand 
baker o’ scadit scones.” 

Gillespie absolutely ignored her, and producing a letter 
from his inside pocket puckered his brow over its con- 
tents. He had read it several times during the day. 
It was from McAskill, and offered to sell to Gillespie his 
own letter of instructions to Barbara concerning the 
Dunoon property if they could agree on the price. 
Gillespie was afraid of McAskill; but relied on his own 
father taking no action, and determined to visit old 
Mr. Strang. He pondered the letter with drawn brows, 
the tip of his tongue protruding, and fell into a brown 


512 


GILLESPIE 


study. He was raking up McAskill’s past, seeking for a 
joint in the lawyer’s armour. 

44 I dinna bake now-a-days ; there’s nothing to bake 
with. Oh, dearie me ! I daurna go near the shop ; and 
Janet compleens she canna get me howkit oot o’ the fire 
en’ ; but I dinna compleen.” She cast a wary glance at 
her husband. 44 We’ve been married over twenty years 
an’ I’ve scarcely left his hip yet.” She nodded over her 
domestic revelations and smiled at her impassive husband. 
The smile was like the last flicker of a dying fire, the faint 
perfume exhaling from a crushed and soiled flower. “ He 
promised to take me to see the crown jewels. . . 

“ Oh, God ! this is awful ! ” groaned the miserable 
Eoghan. 

“Ye needna sweir, Gillespie,” droned the whining 
voice, as she sank heavily into a chair. “ I’ve tholed for 
more than twenty years.” She took a red cotton hand- 
kerchief from her pocket and dabbed her nose. 44 He’s 
aye greetin’ in his sleep, Gillespie ” — her voice became 
high-pitched and sharp — 44 greetin’ even on till I soothe 
him wi’ my hands. 4 Dinna be doin’ that, Eoghan,’ I 
cry an’ cry. I can hear him greetin’ noo ; an’ his legs 
goin’ that way ” — she kicked out spasmodically. She 
was plainly recalling scenes of his boyhood — 44 an’ his 
mouth a’ twitchin’. An’ when I touch him, poor waen, 
he catches me wi’ a death-grup, sayin’ he’s fleein’ away in 
the air. Oh, my poor, poor laddie ” — she rocked herself 
in the chair — 44 my heid’s a’ wrong wi’ him.” She put 
her hand to her head, and her eye caught the vivid red 
handkerchief. 44 It was my granny’s ; I took it out o’ 
the kist. They were the braw big folk in Islay.” Her 
shining eyes searched round the room. 44 I’m feart he’ll 
go wrong in the mind. Do ye think, Gillespie, it’s a 
lassie ? ” The tears trickled down her wrinkled cheeks. 44 If 
I only kent her I would go on my bended knees to her.” 


GILLESPIE 


513 


‘'For God’s sake, father, look at her! she’s going 
mad ! ” Eoghan screamed. 

Gillespie looked across at his wife in a long, steadfast 
gaze. 

“ What ails ye, that ye glower at me like that, man ? ” 
she asked in an angry tone. “ I haven’t another tocher 
for ye to steal.” 

“ Ay,” Gillespie said heavily, “ she’s been on the spree 
wance too often; it’ll soon feenish her, the rate she’s 
goin’ on.” 

A greater horror fell upon Eoghan — horror of his 
father’s judicial, dispassionate attitude. The world was 
huddling away into an arctic night of desolation and woe. 

“ What are we to do ? ” he cried in despair. 

“ Och ! och ! my heid’s dizzy ; it’s gettin’ dark.” 

Eoghan leapt to her side. Her hands made a groping 
movement towards him ; her breathing became deep and 
heavy like a snore ; little beads of sweat oozed out on her 
forehead. 

“ What is it, mother ? ” He put his arm around her 
shoulder. 

Her eyes turned up at his voice. “ It’s one o’ my 
black — turns.” 

She fainted in his arm. 

He screamed on his father, who rose leisurely, frowning, 
filled a cup with water and splashed it on her face. 

"Dinna be scarred,” he said; "she’ll come to.” He 
wont to the door and shouted on Topsail, who came 
scurrying down, a sock in her hand. Her mistress was 
again conscious. 

Topsail cast a spiteful glance at Gillespie and said to 
Eoghan : “ Tak’ an oxter wi’ me intae the room.” 

Between them Mrs. Strang was borne to bed, and 
Topsail assured Eoghan that his mother was now quite 
recovered. As he was leaving the room he heard his 

LL 


514 


GILLESPIE 


mother say : “I have these glasses since Glasgow 
Exhibition wi’ my name on them.] They were never 
used before now.” 

He staggered as if stricken with blindness into the 
kitchen, his eyes blazing on his imperturbable father. 

“ You sit there like a stone ! ” he screamed. “ She’s 
mad ! mad ! I’m weary of misery and heartache ; my 
mother is lost. Oh, thank God I’m going away to- 
morrow ! ” 

As day after day had passed Gillespie was more and more 
convinced that his name hung upon his son, and that its 
future was in his hands. His son was become a desperate 
necessity to him, and being a necessity and the centre 
of his forethought now, was the chief object of his solici- 
tude. His life had been given to the mastery of Brieston ; 
he had neglected almost every obligation within his own 
doors. His married life had been one of sheer disregard 
of the claims of the home, which was not for him a 
sacred place, but a shelter, and more recently a kennel. 
He despised its interests, evaded its necessary cares, refused 
except in the most niggard fashion to maintain its life. 
Insufficient and bad food — the scraps of the shop — and 
neglect began the mischief ; and what had a worse effect 
on Mrs. Strang was the denial to her of all forms of 
recreation and pleasure, which were a sort of moral oxygen 
for her existence. She began to suffer from insomnia, 
and resorted more deeply to drink. As her body gradually 
became emaciated and her strength enfeebled periods of 
bewilderment fell upon her like a cloud, and gave rise in 
her mind to fears and apprehension. After a period of 
revolt — instigated by Mrs. Galbraith — in which Gillespie 
finally threatened violence, she sank into an apathetic 
acceptance of her position, lost all interest in her home, 
then in herself, became loose in her behaviour, and was 
bordering on a state of collapse when the daily stream of 


GILLESPIE 515 

her misery burst its dam, and spread abroad in a turbulent 
sea of insanity. 

Gillespie was anxious to defend himself, for he knew 
that if his wife’s condition was laid by his son to his 
charge, this would make a mortal enemy of the only 
being in the world for whom he had any affection, and 
would rob his life of its one redeeming hope. He was 
increased with goods, but Fate was beginning to expose 
to him the barrenness of things. He must cling to his son 
at all costs ; and so he put on a martyr air now. “ Ay ! 
you’re young at it,” he answered, in a tone of commisera- 
tion, “ an’ it gies ye a red face. I’ve kept it in my he’rt 
thae twenty years.” 

“ Twenty years ! ” Eoghan was aghast. 

“ Ay ! since ye were born, Eoghan. Twenty stricken 
years, withoot a word o’ complaint. It’s me that kens 
the weary coont o’ them — twenty to the pound ” — 
Eoghan was stupefied at this stupendous, silent warfare 
— “ but the dogs,” went on his father’s pathetic voice, 
“ the dogs that sniffed at her I hae broken, an’ sterved 
their waens.” 

Gillespie, pleased at this magnificent finesse, which 
made of his greed a rapier over her defenceless head, 
aimed at the heart of her slanderers, smiled softly. 

The thought of such a dumb, titanic contest bewildered 
Eoghan. But his grandfather ! the old, lonely, despoiled 
man in the “ Ghost,” bending over his consoling Bible — 
this bare tree — had Gillespie struck at him also in his wife’s 
defence ? Eoghan recalled the gnarled hands of his grand- 
father — their thin, twisted veins, the knuckles swollen 
with rheumatism, turning over the leaves of the Bible like 
a marooned mariner consulting a chart — hands that had 
toiled at the oar, and were in their old age ruthlessly 
plundered. Hunger and thirst, death and anguish of the 
sea he had endured with patience ; but the separation 


516 GILLESPIE 

from his family was slowly killing him . Eoghan swallowed 
a sob. 

“ What about my grandfather ? ” he blurted out* 

“ I needit amuneetion for the fight.” 

“ His money is all gone in his old age.” 

“ Hoots ! ” answered Gillespie lightly, “ the old man 
’ill no sterve, ye know that. Ye canna aye keep your ain 
folk in your pooch.” 

“ It’s a lie, a lie/’ rang in Eoghan’s brain; “ greed has 
slain its own, father and wife.” The thought smote oft his 
brain like a hammer on an anvil ; and as he moved to the 
door he flung a look full of contempt at his father : “ Then 
your pocket is a worse hell than my mother’s; ” and he 
went out in wrath before his father. 

The next morning he went by luggage steamer to 
Glasgow without saying good-bye to his father. He had 
started so early that he missed the intelligence which 
circulated through Brieston at noon — that Mr. Kennedy 
had retired from his office. Mr. Campion found him stiff 
and cold in his armchair. 


CHAPTER IX 


Eoghan lived in part in a vertigo of waking, in part 
in that dream state with which he had been familiar in 
boyhood, and before him constantly were the callous 
eyes of his father and the wild, denunciatory laughter of 
his mother, a figure of fury swooning into stone. His 
own face was petrified, his stare fixed, as he roused himself 
with difficulty at the banal sounds of the street, and the 
harsh rumour of a commercial people. “ If I could sit 
on here, sit on for ever,” he thought. His text-book on 
mathematics lay open on the table, where he had placed 
it to defend himself from the intrusions of his landlord, a 
fiery-faced man in stocking soles, who last night had 
curled himself up in a horse-hair armchair and recounted 
to the lodger his personal history. He had seen the 
Queen in Glasgow twice ; his son had been driven “ silly ” 
by the police, who had held him as a marked man, and had 
mauled him on a Saturday night. His son now spent his 
time hanging over the window, and shrinking back when 
he saw a uniform. Now and again he would flap his arms 
and say : “ If I were a wee spug I would flee awa’ frae the 
poliss.” Eoghan had been invited into the kitchen 
overlooking Byres Road to see the “ silly,” who mouthed 
at him and made noises like an animal. His landlord and 
he filed out again, as if they had been in a zoological 
garden or a museum, the red-faced mason whispering that 
it was all up with a man when the poliss took a spite to 
him. 

Eoghan had that day sat the paper in English, and 
517 


518 


GILLESPIE 


determined to revise his trigonometry after tea. Rousing 
himself, he lit the gas and sat down to a chapter on the 
solution of triangles. He read the first page without any 
conception of its meaning. Weariness, hopelessness, fell 
upon him as a curse, and he got up in despair. His eye 
caught an oleograph of Gladstone on the wall, showing a 
young pink-and- white complexion and a cherubic smile. 
He shook himself with an effort from this mood of de- 
tachment. “ What am I doing ? Nothing ; nothing,” he 
thought, overcome with vexation. His misery was irre- 
deemable. Aimlessly he picked up the examination 
paper in English, headed Glasgow University Preliminary 
Examination. By an enormous effort of will he had that 
day tackled the questions which were all, he thought, so 
utterly divorced from life. What had they to do with 
the horror of his existence ? Mechanically he read them 
once more. “ Give, in your own words, the substance of 
the following passage” (the lines swam before his eyes) : 

“ No voice divine the storm allayed. 

No light propitious shone ; 

We perished each alone, 

And I 

And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.** 

“ Poor devil ! poor mad devil,” he muttered. He 
read on, stultified : 

“ Characterise the style of the following passages : 

“ (a) * But the iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and 
deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit of perpetuity. 

“ (b) ‘ Till the day break and the shadows flee away.* 

“(c) ‘ Through the sad heart of Ruth when, sick for home, 

She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 

The same that ofttimes hath 
Charm’d magic casements opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn * ** 

The examination paper fluttered in his shaking hand. 
Beyond the walls he saw the spindrift rising behind dim 


GILLESPIE 


519 


isles of the west, upon the rigging of a gaunt, lonely 
house smothered in clouds of snow, and heard the sign 
of a dagger jangling above the door. Pale dreams of a 
sombre sea-land drifted up and vanished, leaving un- 
appeasable pain and sadness behind. He read on : 

“ (d) * Oh, eloquent, just, and mightie Death ! whom none could 
advise thou hast persuaded ; what none hath dared thou hast done, 
and whom all the world hath flattered thou only hast cast out of the 
world and despised. Thou hast drawn together all the farre stretched 
greatness, all the pride, crueltie, and ambition of man, and covered it 
all over with these two narrow words — Hie Jacet ! 1 n 

What fiendish torture ! What infinite malice to 
torment him with those words ! The babbling of the 
“ silly ” in the next room broke the silence. He was 
whining for his mother to protect him from the poliss. 
What a world of devils and of geniuses ! Eoghan crushed 
the examination paper into a ball and threw it on the 
fire. The thought of returning to the text-book on 
trigonometry filled him with nausea, and picking up his 
cap he went into the street and walked up University 
Avenue, away from the crowd in Byres Road, like one in 
a dream . He was startled by the University clock booming 
the half-hour as he hurried down the brae of Gibson 
Street. In Woodlands Road the crowd was thicker ; but 
he thought them morose, alien to the feelings of pity or 
terror, and untouched by any great trial. They moved 
as a cloud. He retraced his steps, plunging blindly, 
and his level stare distinguishing no face in front of 
him. 

Within his room he felt safer and calmer. The clear 
light, the bright fire, made the place an asylum from 
the great callous city. Determined to resign himself to 
the hazards of the future, he would seize an omen from 
to-morrow’s examination paper. If it suited the course 
of his studies he would pursue his way through a College 


520 


GILLESPIE 


career relentlessly, with his back for ever turned upon 
Brieston and its shame. He went to bed in a com- 
paratively tranquil state of mind. 

The morning was dark with fog, out of which, as he 
passed along Dumbarton Road, he saw a funeral loom, 
the hearse gigantic in the gloom. He shuddered. At 
this time in the morning ! He took his chair at the 
square, black table — No. 104 — in the Bute Hall, and 
having written his name on the examination book, sat 
gnawing the end of the pen. As something far off in 
a dream he heard the rustling of papers all over the hall, 
and the uneasy shuffling of feet. It was no use — his 
youth was despoiled ; he saw that now. The armour of 
last night’s resignation was only cardboard. A cloud of 
anguish brooded on his mind. He would have to live in 
a house whose blinds were eternally drawn, within which 
sat a dishevelled woman with a face of stone, who only 
roused herself to commit acts of shame, and to return 
from her orgies trembling and white as a sheet, her glassy 
eyes pools of madness. He gave way to the direst sus- 
picions, recalling the obscene name he had heard the 
tailor use, and seeing once more the desert emptiness of 
a moonlit street, and its blind, blanched house-fronts 
crudely staring down on a dark, ugly figure reeling along 
to the accompaniment of inane laughter. He saw the 
great dog slouch away in fear, and heard her childish skirl 
rise over the fevered scraping of hundreds of pens, wielded 
by young men who were racing with each other against 
time for a place on the Bursary List. There had been 
in Brieston Harbour a yacht’s anchor-light which had a 
wobbling movement like hers. From the degradation 
of this woman proceeded a flame that was devouring 
him. She, sordid and derelict, was become the arbiter of 
his fate and he the puppet. Pitiably ignorant of her 
debauchery, she was Olympian over him in menace, her 


GILLESPIE 


521 


dishevelled head towering among lightnings. The clean- 
ness of his life was an ineptitude before her vileness ; his 
ambitions and hopes lay strangled in the coils of her 
obscenity. As long as she was above earth he would be 
a target for the jibes and whisperings of men who could 
think of nothing but the weather and the fishing. What 
use to carry College laurels back to the mire of Brieston ? 
His quivering, secretive, proud heart was bleeding as 
he thought of his darling dreams shattered by a malign 
and sordid despotism. He gazed around in anguish at 
the hundreds of young men with heads bent over the 
little square, black tables in the large, silent hall, and felt 
himself an outcast. He had chewed the end of his pen 
to pulp, and his chair was scrunching on the hard wooden 
floor. His fellow-examinee at the next table looked 
angrily across at him, and Eoghan bent his eyes on his 
examination book and began to write, he knew not what. 
After a little he glanced at the examination paper, but, 
unable to discern the algebraic symbols, threw down his 
pen and pushed back his chair. The pen rolled off the 
table on to the floor. He stood a moment swaying on his 
feet. The student beside him looked up and was about 
to speak, but at sight of the shocking appearance of 
Eoghan’s face went on again with his writing. Eoghan 
walked rapidly down the matted passage towards the 
door. Some one shouted, and turning he saw the super- 
intendent of the examination, a thin, wiry man, with 
dark, piercing eyes, relieved by a humorous, tolerant 
smile. His gown was floating out behind him like a cloud. 
Eoghan awaited him with a fixed smile and set jaws, as 
he would a bloodhound on his slot. 

“ Have you finished your algebra ? ” 

Eoghan felt angered at the cool, self-sufficient dark- 
ness of this man, at his malignant politeness and immacu- 
late get-up — neatly curled black moustache, superb linen 


522 


GILLESPIE 


cuffs, high, snowy collar, a dim blue stone in his tie-pin, 
his thick, curly hair neatly cropped. 

“ I’ve done all the algebra I’ll ever do.” He felt at bay 
and revengeful. 

“ If you want to leave the hall at this hour you must 
leave the examination paper behind.” 

“ I have no paper.” Eoghan bowed ironically and 
turned on his heel. The superintendent stared after 
him, betraying well-bred surprise; then strolled to the 
vacant table and curiously read the name on the yellow 
cover of the examination book. He opened it at the 
first page. It contained no algebra, but : 

“ Oh, eloquent, just, and mightie Death, so early in the fog.’ 1 

A little beneath it in a large, sprawling hand : 

“ No voice divine the storm allayed, 

On perilous seas in faery lands forlorn.” 

And further down, in a more ragged hand : 

“The gown has yielded to infamy; the eternal lamp of learning 
is quenched because there was whisky for oil in the bowl.” 

“ Life is a page of Punch, with the letterpress by Sterne and 
Rabelais. Vae victisS % 

The whimsical smile faded out of the black, piercing 
eyes as they rested for a long time on the scribbled writing. 
“ The incoherence of talent. I ought to have detained 
him ; ” and the superintendent picked up the book as a 
trophy for his wife’s careless hour, and went back to his 
duty of patrolling the hall. 

Everything looked as simple as before — the long 
frontage of the Infirmary; the red-flannelled patients 
taking the air ; the West-end Park with its trees, its sinuous 
walks, its muddy river; the cabs and cars rattling along 
Dumbarton Road ; the squat little uniformed porter at 
the gate of the Infirmary, keeping official watch upon the 
living and the dead — and yet all was changed. It was 


GILLESPIE 


523 


hateful, inimical, leaping suddenly out of a state of sun- 
drenched quiescence into an amazing busyness, wrought 
of the hand of ambition, hung with dreams and hopes, 
ripe with achievement, and accusing him as he crept 
along with his infinitesimal pain of vacillation, cowardice, 
and puerile despair. The sight of the Infirmary and 
University was hideous, and he hastened to get down to 
the street, where were men of affairs like his father. He 
had formed an idea of escape from an accusing con- 
science — he would return to Brieston and engage himself 
in the business of his father. He flung back a look of 
hatred at the long front of the University. It was a big, 
grey cage. He had no tender resignation, but a spirit 
of sombre revolt against this seat of the monopoly of 
haughty intelligence. He had the superintendent in his 
mind’s eye, and ground his teeth as he thought of that 
dark official, who had smiled like a god upon his disquiet. 
He had spoken with a lisp and a supercilious curl of dark 
eyebrows, a play of white fingers and manicured nails. 
Simpering fool in the swaddling bands of fine linen ! The 
drone of Glasgow’s traffic came up to him. What did 
that academic ass, that dry surd know of all this — the 
fife of the great grimy servant beneath, who keeps a door 
in the house of the world — his eyes swept around to the 
Infirmary — or of that carbuncle on the back of the city ? 
Does he know anything of the poor devils who are glad 
to creep in there out of ships ? — Iain, broken on a reeling 
deck in the midst of a gale, was in his mind — out of 
factories, out of the big offices, out of the wee homes. 
Ay ! out of the wee homes. “ Bethesda ! Bethesda ! ” 
he muttered. The sun struck along the noble front of 
the edifice. He remembered the crowd he had seen 
yesterday standing at its gates. How fine it looked with 
its trees and lawns! but that silent crowd, with their 
bunches of flowers, their drawn faces, their bleeding 


524 


GILLESPIE 


hearts waiting at the gates of the grim resolver of all 
their fears. He nodded to the grey pile — how quiet it 
was ! — death is quiet — and the windows, hundreds of 
them, watching and waiting. A siren screamed on the 
river. Though the fog had lifted from the heights of 
Gilmorehill it clung in shreds about the Clyde. Why 
do these seamen blare so in the very doors of pain ? Do 
people ever think what is behind that long face of stone 
with its watching windows, where the pigeons flutter in 
the silent sunshine — a knife perhaps going this very 
moment into a girl’s body ? He shuddered. Then, 
recollecting himself, he rose from off the railing on which 
he had been leaning, and gazed down on the roofs of 
Glasgow. Life was going on there, big and palpitating, 
breeding and bleeding, sowing and reaping, founding and 
building, hewing and banking. There should be a Chair 
of Life founded in this University — he lapsed again into 
meditation — but where would they find a professor ? 
He was eager to escape into the streets, having succeeded 
in pouring an anodyne upon his conscience. The Univer- 
sity is an artificial rose planted in the midst of a field in 
which men are toiling and sweating. The rose for ever 
blows, rain or sun, and young fools learn to carry away 
from it beautiful artificial petals. With this specious 
idea, which was his apology to his conscience for his 
retreat, he passed out of the University gate into the 
turbulence of Dumbarton Road. An incubus of grey 
stone, a meaningless network of mathematical figures and 
quotations from the classics was behind him. A blind 
man, anchored to a dog by the gate, was reading aloud 
from a Braille book. The latter-day fear of life gripped 
Eoghan at the sight; and rattling some coppers in the 
blind man’s tin he hurried on in the direction of Partick. 
He wandered without sense of direction, and felt jaded 
and his mind empty. In a little while he asked aloud, 


GILLESPIE 


525 


“ Why am I here? I’ve made an ugly mess of things. 
What will Mr. Kennedy think ? ” His brain burned with 
the consciousness that he was like an animal caught in 
the toils. Twice he stopped, gazing around, feeling 
terribly lonely, and hungering for the sight of a known 
face. In Great Western Road, not far from the Botanic 
Gardens, he asked a policeman to direct him to Byres 
Road. He asked this to have an opportunity of speaking 
to some one, for he felt in this monstrous isolation that 
he must scream aloud. He found his landlady out. 
His limbs were heavy like metal as he sat down in com- 
pany of the “ silly.” He felt languid and depressed. 
His companion turned large eyes of fear upon him, and 
crouched into a corner. Neither spoke a word. After 
an hour of this inanition, feeling refreshed by his rest, 
he picked up his cap and went out. Grey evening was 
brooding on the streets of Partick, along which the “ black 
squad ” was hurrying home for tea. He remembered 
he had eaten nothing since breakfast, and walked along 
on the look-out for an eating-house. In Kelvinhaugh he 
entered a dairy, drank two glasses of milk and ate a scone. 
His eye caught a play-bill on the wall, and he asked the 
girl behind the counter by what streets to reach the 
theatre. He lost his way, and paid a street urchin to act 
as guide ; but the boy, proving too loquacious, was dis- 
missed. In the theatre he felt a sense of isolation, and 
suffered from the happiness of those about him. His 
neighbour, a stout, short man with a clear, healthy com- 
plexion, was deep in talk with his fellow about a bowling 
tournament somewhere in Langside, with which the 
season was to be closed. The tournament was to be 
followed by a whist drive. The little stout man spoke 
wittily, and incensed Eoghan. The play, a gross travesty 
of life, teemed with skipping girls, a naval officer smoking 
cigarettes, in a splendid uniform, who sang a bombastic 


528 


GILLESPIE 


sea-song in a rich baritone, and a wizened little man in 
grey side-whiskers and spats, the rich father of a willowy 
girl, who was in love with the baritone. The father 
posed in attitudes of grief as he reviled the officer and 
his wilful daughter to a ringletted woman who was once 
nurse to the daughter. What tawdry banality ! The 
scene overwhelmed him with mournfulness. The fat 
witty man at his side was whispering innuendoes behind 
his programme, and scrutinising the painted girls as if 
they were cattle. Eoghan left the theatre, weary of its 
tinsel, sick of its cardboard life and stucco characters. 
He would go home, yes, home ; Barbara would bring out 
her fiddle and they would make a night of it. He went 
down Renfield Street and bought his ticket at the Central 
Station. In Argyll Street he boarded a car for Partick. 
The beards of middle-aged men hung over the buttoned- 
up collars of their coats as they leaned attentively towards 
the women, and with an air of responsibility searched for 
the necessary coins in their pockets. Every one was 
silent except an old, stout man, grey like a lichened rock. 
A young girl tripped in, leaving a legacy of laughter 
behind her to some friend or lover. She wore neither 
furs, veil, nor gloves, was all in white, and filled the car 
with breeziness, spontaneity, joyousness, a sense of 
health. On her entrance convention paled, and every 
one began to talk. Eoghan thought of Barbara, and 
saw as in a dream the face of the morning hills rise in a 
bland air above a tranquil sea ; the “ Ghost ” laved almost 
by the tide, and sea-birds flying over its roof. At its door 
an old man with expectant face watched the road. He 
glanced timidly at the girl. Feeling his eyes upon her 
she returned the glance. In confusion he looked out of 
the car and saw a woman of the street, her neck fore- 
shortened in the depth of imitation sable furs, dallying 
at the window of a music-seller’s shop to evade the police 


GILLESPIE 527 

till the music-hall across the street disgorged the devotees 
of an empty art. 

At Finnieston a couple entered. One a wisp of a man 
who sat down hat in hand. A white tie marked him as 
a wedding guest. He ran his fingers through his hair 
and babbled of his recent revelry to the woman, who was 
enormously fat and sat legs astride. Her flesh quivered 
with the movements of the vehicle. She had a paunch of 
a bosom on which lay droppings of food. Her hat was 
awry. She began to recount the history of a quarrel at 
the wedding feast. Her eyes were bleary with drink; 
she rolled in her seat, grunting, and presented a sordid 
spectacle. A woman in bangles and furs beside Eoghan 
murmured “ How disgusting ! ” The female leviathan 
belched and, angry at the man for monopolising the 
conversation, plucked a rabbit fur from her neck and 
stuffed it in the man’s mouth. He threatened her with 
his fist, and the conductor of the car intervened. Eoghan 
was sickened, and the silver vision of home vanished. 
He saw his mother in this slavering, foul-mouthed 
woman. He rose hurriedly, left the car, and found him- 
self at the gates of the West-end Park. A tall, thin, dark 
woman with a child’s hand in hers stopped singing to 
beseech alms of a young man and girl who approached 
the gates arm in arm. She said they had had nothing to 
eat that day. The girl was leaning towards her lover 
with her shining eyes upon him, and they did not so much 
as glance at the starving mother and child. The woman 
sighed deeply, and looked down in pity at the babe. 
What a relentless world ! He thrust a handful of coins 
into the woman’s hand and dived into the darkness of 
the Park. He had noticed a falling-in about the woman’s 
temples. He heard the girl ahead of him laughing, and 
was filled with rage. He walked rapidly till he came to 
a vacant seat. Above him the massed gloom of the 


528 


GILLESPIE 


University pile made him shudder — gigantic under a dark 
night-sky, inhospitable, and yet harbouring in its scrupu- 
lous aloofness a thousand thousand dreams — the home 
and asylum of all the talents which yet ground individual 
sorrow and grief into dust. He took no notice of the 
chance couples who passed him, clinging to each other’s 
arms. What was he to do ? He attempted to count his 
money. There was seven pounds in notes. The loose 
money he had given to the woman at the gate. He would 
go to some strange town a,nd rid him of the incubus of 
the University and his mother — Dundee, Aberdeen, 
Perth, Edinburgh, Ayr, Dumfries, London; he conned 
name after name — Oxford. “ What folly is this ? ” he 
cried aloud, half bewildered; “ I must go home and live 
it down; Barbara at least will be glad to see me.” The 
University bell boomed out solemnly. He counted the 
heavy strokes. Twelve o’clock. He jumped to his feet 
as the last stroke died away. It was the farewell of the 
University to one of her lost children. 

He recognised when he reached his lodgings that Bries- 
ton was a retreat which would expose him to humiliation, 
and which was big with unnamed fear. He sat down with 
an abandoned air, his arms hanging loosely. The fire 
was out, and he began to shiver with the cold. He was 
unable to think. If only he could go and hide some- 
where. The tears oozed into his eyes, and when he 
angrily shook them away his eyes became fixed like 
stones. Suddenly he saw his mother before him — she 
was in her nightdress, her hair on her shoulders, a lamp 
in her hand, and she besought him mutely, with a face 
of fear and hunger. He jumped to his feet, full of alarm, 
and a scream rang from his lips. It awakened him to 
reality. The vision had vanished, the room was horribly 
empty, and life also empty of everything dear that it 
possessed — faith, aspiration, effort. He felt himself 


GILLESPIE 


529 


rising up with the floor and sinking down. “ She needs 
me ! she needs me ! ” he moaned. The room began 
slowly to spin about ; but he was unable to lift his head, 
which felt numb and hard like a block of iron. He 
tottered to the mirror and gazed at his face. It was 
drawn and like clay. 

“ I am going to be ill,” he whispered in a strained, 
tense voice. He thought he heard some one moving in 
the next room, but was not sure, for a loud buzzing sang 
in his ears. He staggered back towards the chair and 
felt himself sliding into an enormous space. The room 
had ceased spinning, and was receding from him swiftly, 
as if winged. He flung up his two arms and sank into the 
black void. The door was opened cautiously an inch or 
so ; a red-whiskered face peered in, and two slits of eyes, 
blinking with sleep. 

‘ Is anything wrang wi’ ye ? ” 

There was no answer. 

It was not till the seventeenth day after that the 
Partick doctor allowed Eoghan to rise from a bed of low 
fever and influenza to go home. The doctor advised him 
to take a thorough rest, and if possible go on a holiday 
that would give him a complete change. Above all, he 
was on no account to worry. Eoghan set out for Brieston, 
after having sent a telegram to Barbara from the Central 
Station. 


M M 


CHAPTER X 


Topsail wore a clean apron, and had dinner ready for 
him in the parlour. She had dusted the box of birds’ 
eggs, collected when he was at school, and set it in a con- 
spicuous placed beside the stuffed parrot in the glass case. 
Her work finished, she became shy ; and this feeling grew 
as it came nearer noon, at which hour the steamer was 
due. What would she call him — Eoghan or Mr. Strang ? 
She could not decide. “ Mr.” was cold and strange. A 
distant rumble was heard, and she ran to the parlour 
window. “ There’s the coaches ; there’s the coaches 
frae the steamer,” she shouted excitedly to her mistress. 
She watched the coach stop at the “ George Hotel ” and 
the bareheaded proprietor scurry out of doors. There was 
a cloud of steam above the horses’ ears. The driver 
jumped down, whip in hand, and his bandy legs twinkled 
round to the nose of his horses. Three passengers de* 
scended and entered the Hotel. The driver climbed up 
again to the box and laid his whip across the flanks of his 
team. Topsail’s eyes widened; her hands fell listlessly 
to her side. The Square and the front of the Hotel 
became desolatingly empty. She blamed the driver for 
this and hated him. Mechanically she picked up the 
case of eggs, wiped the glass with her apron and looked 
round the room — the bright fire, the first since Iain’s 
funeral, ordered that day by Gillespie, and the table with 
its snowy cloth. A phantom presence that had come 
there with strong familiar solicitations had crept away 
again. She felt widowed afresh. Again she moved to 
the window. No ! Yes ! it was he. She wiped the 

530 


GILLESPIE 


531 


tears from her eyes and craned her neck. Wearing 
gloves, too, and walking up the street with Maclean. 
The dear doctor ! pulling away at his moustache and 
watching Eoghan with his keen eyes. But what a face 
the laddie had — white as a sheet ! 

“ Come over to-morrow and have breakfast with me.” 
Oh, the dear, dear doctor. Just listen to his big, cheery 
voice. 

“ Oh, he’s here ! he’s here ! Do ye think he’d come 
up wi’ the coaches ? The folk winna see him. He walked 
up wi’ the doctor.” She gripped her mistress by the arm 
and shouted in her ear : 

“ He’s gotten a moustache; I saw ’t frae the winda; 
a wee black moustache.” An ecstatic joy irradiated 
Topsail’s face. Her mistress gloomed up at her from 
lowering eyebrows, and made no response. 

Gillespie was standing in the front door of the shop. 
He was now past middle age; his neck, straight and 
massive, was so red that flame seemed to be smouldering 
beneath the skin. His skull was immense; its frontal 
part polished like an ivory ball; and his hair turning 
silver. A pleasant, almost patriarchal man to look at, 
were it not for the quick eyes, which darted with the 
weasel’s cunning and flash. He had a ponderous, satur- 
nine, half meditative air as he watched his son. 

“ An’ hoo are ye ? ” he hailed cheerily, while Eoghan 
was some two yards off. With a glad light in his greenish 
eyes, whose moistness gave the impression that they had 
been sucking something succulent, he scanned his son. 

“A wee thing thinner; ye’re at the studyin’ ower 
much.” Eoghan was moved by the solicitude in his 
father’s voice and look. 

“ Oh, I’m all right ! ” He brushed past his father 
into the shop from the gaze of the Square — Lowrie in linen 
at his window ; Kyle, with his withering smile, at his door. 


532 


GILLESPIE 


Gillespie followed, and when they were within the 
shop, held out an almost timid hand, and with a hungry 
look at his son said : 44 Shake hands, Eoghan.” 

They shook hands in silence. 

That face, pale as the dead, the listless air, the slack 
hands, the weary voice, found out Gillespie in the very 
centre of his being. 

4 4 Ye’re home for a holiday.” He spoke with desperate 
cheerfulness. 

No ! he had failed in his examination ; he had been 
ill in Glasgow. 44 I’ve come back to go into the busi- 
ness as you wished ” : then he turned his back, and 
stood spent and motionless, the lines of his body 
quivering into rigidity. In that bowed figure Gillespie 
divined that there was more than the effect of failure in 
examination, for which, indeed, Gillespie was glad. He 
refrained from questioning his son about his prolonged 
absence and how he had spent the 44 siller.” The stark 
figure troubled Gillespie, who was ready to make sacrifices 
now that Eoghan was prepared to go into the business. 
His son’s decision removed a deep, secret trouble. Final 
attainment in life was now possible. He would leave a 
44 braw pickle siller ” to his son, who would prolong his 
name and carry on his works. He knew the smouldering 
hostility of Brieston ; the implacable enmity of Lonend ; 
Mrs. Galbraith’s unsleeping desire of vengeance; but 
trampled on these in sheer contempt. A balance at the 
bank was invulnerable armour, and nothing could touch 
him now in face of those words : 44 I’ve come to go into 
the business ” — nothing except that ghostly face con- 
sumed with woe. It filled him with a growing uneasiness. 

44 Is there anything wrang wi’ ye by ordinar, Eoghan ? ” 

44 I’ve come back to the slave-hulks,” was the 
answer. 

Gillespie was non-plussed. He determined to make a 


GILLESPIE 


533 


bargain with his son that any man would jump at, for 
the wounds taken in life’s vicissitudes could all be healed 
by bargains. “ Dinna tak’ on aboot thae examinations ; 
I’ll soon be gein’ up business ; I feel gey an’ dune whiles 
in the mornin’s : ye’ll hae a braw sittin’ doon ; naethin’ 
in a’ Brieston like it. I’ve wrocht lang an’ late an’ early ; 
the tocher ’ill a’ be yours, Eoghan. There’s seeven 
thoosan’ in dry money in the bank; an’ eight hunner 
good in shares in shippin’ ; an’ a score o’ fishin’ -boats ; 
an’ a’ the stores and the business ; an’ I’m insured on a 
thoosan’ wi’ profits when I’m sixty-five.” 

To Eoghan his father was enumerating the results of a 
life of oppression, dishonesty, and theft. 

“ Step ben the office an’ we’ll look ower the books an’ 
papers ; it’s as weel for ye to ken whaur ye stan’.” 

Eoghan turned and confronted his father. “ Don’t 
insult me any longer with your offer of plunder. You 
make me feel a rogue. The more the thousands the deeper 
your guilt.” 

The cold, merciless tones smote Gillespie like a sword. 
He saw himself baulked, his life defeated and closed up 
without avenue of escape, his wealth ashes, and nemesis 
in his path. If his son denied him, what lay ahead of 
him but a dreary existence of aimlessly amassing money ? 
It would go through his wife — who seemed to be as wiry 
as a cat — to Lonend, who was to be married to Mrs. 
Galbraith at the New Year. The thought was gall to 
him. What could he do with his possessions? The 
profile of nemesis now was turned full face upon him 
— to have laboured for Lonend and Calum Galbraith’s 
widow. More than ever was the anchor of his hope 
cast in his son. Gillespie turned harrowed eyes upon 
him, and in that glance, resting on the silent figure of 
grief which already had begun to haunt the father, he 
felt how impotent he was. 


534 


GILLESPIE 


“ What dae ye mean, Eoghan ? Ye canna go intae a 
business noo-a-days withoot capital.” 

“ Do you know what I did with the money you gave 
me when I went to Glasgow? I paid my landlady and 
the doctor.” 

“ Of coorse ; of coorse. I hope ye werena skimped.” 

“ The rest I gave to the poor,” Eoghan went on piti- 
lessly. Gillespie winced, and sternness crept into his 
eyes; his nostrils whistled with suppressed anger. “If 
you want me to work along with you pay back the money 
you have plundered.” 

“ To wha ? ” 

“ To the fishermen ; to my grandfather ; to my 
mother.” 

At this signal of menace covetousness gripped Gillespie’s 
heart. 

“ To your mother,” he sneered ; “ bonny lik’ thing, to 
squander it in drink.” 

“ That fault is yours. You have denied her all her 
life ; you have made my grandfather weep tears of blood ; 
your greed has been the means of drowning my brother.” 

“ Ay ! ay ! blame me for Goad Almighty’s storms.” 

“ No ! ” The boy’s face was blanched with passion. 
“ I blame you for a rotten, ill-founded, under-manned 
boat. The heap of your gold is the heap of your iniquity. 
Remember when you come to die that I told you so.” 

Gillespie trembled before the fierceness of the accusa- 
tion. The solid ground was gone from his feet. “ Is 
that what ye cam’ back frae the Coallege to tell me? ” 
The feeble light of a last hope fluttered in his breast — 
his son had spoken at the first of entering the business 
without those terrible stipulations. “ Will ye no’ tak’ 
up the pleugh-stilts, Eoghan, an’ no’ heed thae noan- 
sense ? Ye’re tired oot the noo. Bide till ye get a chack 
o’ dinner.” 


GILLESPIE 


535 


“ I warn you I will give your money away to its rightful 
owners.” 

Fear and greed made Gillespie abject. He moaned 
the death of Iain. Where could he turn now ? He 
had slaved all his life and was this the end, the thanks ? 
Was he to carry his white hairs to the street a beggar, 
and begin the fight again empty-handed ? Brieston 
would fling glaur on him. Had his son no bowels of 
mercy ? Was he to see a’ his money an’ gear slippin’ 
into the hands o’ Lonen’, his dour enemy? 

He spent his last word and stood waiting, beseeching 
an answer. Eoghan’s back was still turned. “ Goad 
in heaven ! I canna thole to see my money gang to 
Lonen’ : it wad gie me the grue in my grave.” 

“ If there’s no other way, then take it with you to the 
grave.” 

The words fell on Gillespie loaded with doom. One 
minute, two, three of terrific silence. It was broken by 
a gush of song from one of the canaries. In the midst 
of the raining melody Eoghan began to walk out of the 
shop. “ I will return as your partner when you have 
paid back what you have taken unjustly, and restored to 
my mother her proper position as your wife.” 

Gillespie did not hear. The blaze of bird-music 
drowned every other sound. He raised a stupefied face 
to the canary. “ Wheest, wheest ee noo wi’ your blatter ; 
wheest, I tell ye ; hae I no’ enough to thole ? ” 

He felt stifling, and walked heavily to the door for air. 
His son was walking rapidly across the Square. He 
watched him go down Harbour Street, on the way to the 
“Ghost.” For a long time Gillespie pondered, and at 
last retired and addressed the twittering canary. “ There’s 
only ae thing noo — get him mairrit on Barbara, She’ll 
haud a grup o’ the siller.” 


CHAPTER XI 


Some ten days previous to this scene Gillespie had paid 
a furtive visit to the 4 4 Ghost ” — the first since he had 
removed to the Square, and the following morning at 
breakfast old Mr. Strang spoke of the visit to Barbara. 
He fidgeted a good deal and finally said : 

44 He’s stealt your money, Barbara.” 

The girl’s bosom rose and fell quickly. 

44 Have we no money, grandad ? 

44 Yours is gone, lassie — the thief, thief ” — those words 
were wrung out of him. 

Barbara was overcome with horror. Life, threatened 
with penury, suddenly assumed titanic proportions. 

44 What are we to do, grandad ? ” 

44 McAskill, the lawyer, advises ye to go to law.” He 
spoke without looking up. She thought of Eoghan and 
her face became tender, compassionate. 

44 Oh, no ! no ! not that.” 

He groaned. 44 We maun nurse oor sorrow an’ oor 
shame. The wolf !“ the wolf ! needit the money for a 
steamer.” 

He lifted his eyes upon her out of tearless depths, 
and the pathos of something once beautiful and now 
mangled in that face stirred the girl to a wave of 
motherhood. She ran to him and flung her arms around 
his neck. 44 Never mind, grandad ; we’ve always got 
each other.” 

44 Ay, God’s good to me . . . Gillespie doesna believe 
in God. It’s a terrible thing, the wrath o’ the livin’ 

536 


GILLESPIE 


537 


God.” The voice rang out loudly. The girl gazed at 
him in fear. “ Your granny was feared o’ a curse. What 
am I sayin’ ! ” he broke off abruptly ; “ a wheen noansense 
o’ the olden times ” 

Barbara listened wide-eyed. Something of horror 
in the backward life of this house overshadowed them, 
and her glamorous beauty faded away into an aged look, 
as that of one who has watched a battle, and has seen the 
ruin of war conceal the face of one beloved. 

But her fear of penury, her horror of the unknown 
curse were now forgotten. Eoghan was coming to-day, 
and great prison walls crumbled to dust. Fire licked 
up the grey shadows upon the world. There were tongues 
and voices everywhere. She consulted the telegram again 
and again, flung open the window, and drank in breath 
after breath of the cool air. Frost whitened the grass and 
hedges ; the road was like iron ; diamonds flashed in the 
sea. Life was glory, and she ascended her mount of 
transfiguration and saw the heavens open. The scents 
of the shore ; salt of the sea ; its sparkle and glitter and 
crooning; the fleece-clouds in the blue; the imperial 
blaze on the windows of Muirhead Farm ; the wheeling 
of the gulls; a tawny fisher sail leaning on the gentle 
north wind — all entered through eye and ear into her 
blood, intoxicating her. She opened wide her arms and 
murmured his name. Her eyes, like frosty stars, shone 
along the road to Brieston. 

The sight of her was at once a solvent of his trouble. 
As he became aware of the marvellous fragrance of her 
face, the tender, shy glance of her eyes, the eagerness and 
joy of her whole being, he ascended out of his misery into 
another plane of being. She blushed before his long, 
ardent look, and came towards him, her two hands out, 
her youth full of alluring grace, speaking his name breath- 
lessly. As he kissed her he saw in the shadow of her hat 


538 


GILLESPIE 


a magnificent lustre in her eyes. Then they walked by 
the sea-side, where the Loch was a great pearl, bordered 
along the shore as with green iridescent glass. She called 
his attention to the insignificant things of the wayside for 
sheer joy of talking to him, jested about his moustache, 
which she caressed with pouts of laughter. “ What 
torment my life has been since you went away; but 
now — Oh, Eoghan ! Eoghan ! I love you better than 
God.” 

“ Hush ! you mustn’t say that.” 

“ Oh, but it’s true ! it’s true ! ” 

Her eyes were shining as if she beheld an unearthly 
vision. “ Oh, Eoghan ! Eoghan ! you’ve come ; you’ve 
come back at last.” She edged between his arms, and 
hungrily gazing on his face, leaned her head on his 
shoulder and began to sob softly. A bird was calling, 
calling upon the hill, where the grey little wind was purfling 
among the trees. The song of the bird became a pain to 
him. 

“ Barbara, dear ! what is wrong ? ” 

“ I thought you were never, never going to come . . . 
it’s terrible ... I don’t know what has come over 
grandad ... I wish, oh, I wish he could cry ! ” 

He ceased walking. 

“ What is it ? ” He had a premonition of disaster. 

“ That lawyer came — I shudder yet when I think of 
him : he’s so like an eel — and then, dear, your father. 
Grandad hasn’t been the same since. He doesn’t seem 
to hear when I speak to him; but keeps on muttering 
about grandmother and some sort of doom. He says 
the sign over the door must come down.” Her lips were 
pale, and they stood hand in hand, looking in at each 
other’s eyes in dread. “ When I read the telegram you 
sent he said you must not step below the sign again.” 
From where they stood the sign was visible. Swaying 


GILLESPIE 


539 


in the little grey wind, its hand that held the dripping 
dagger shook as with frenzy. Its mournful sound came to 
their ears, cold-blooded, croaking. In a puff of the wind 
it snarled as if in rage. The girl shivered as a cloud went 
over the sun. 

“I wonder what my father was doing there ” He 

checked himself ; he felt something sinister and un- 
fathomable gathering on his life, and thought of his 
mother. “ Were you there when my father came ? ” he 
asked abruptly* 

“ I was upstairs ... I think they were quarrelling.” 

She was withholding something, he felt. 

44 Barbara, tell me what you heard.” 

She lifted candid, trustful, yet frightened eyes to him. 
“ Grandad said to him, 4 No ! I’ll hae nocht to do wi’ 
lawyers. I leave ye in the hands of God.’ ” 

44 And then ? ” 

44 Your father answered, 4 I’ll tak’ the risk o’ that.’ ” 

44 Ah ! what a devil ! what a devil ! ” By a prodigious 
effort of will he recovered his calm. 44 Come,” he went on, 
44 come with me to the 4 Ghost He took her hand and 
led her down the braeside above the burn, which they 
crossed, walked along a fence, and came out through a 
little gate at the back of the 44 Ghost,” at the outhouse 
where Gillespie used to keep his snares. They passed 
round the gable-end, along the gable wall, to the corner 
of the house. A flurry of wind blew in their faces, and 
the girl bent her head; but Eoghan’s eyes were riveted 
on a sight that made the blood drain away from his heart. 
Against the wall of the house was a ladder, which his 
grandfather, hammer in hand, was climbing. His 
shoulders were rounded into a hoop ; his hair had grown 
grey ; his head was bare ; the long grey locks were tossed 
about by the wind. The girl lifted her eyes and shrieked : 

44 Grandfather, grandfather, you’ll be killed ! ” 


540 


GILLESPIE 


The old man continued to climb up, his eyes fixed on 
the sign above, his mouth open, the blue-veined hand 
clutching the hammer. The Bent Preen drifted up from 
nowhere and stood, pricked out against the grey sea, in a 
new pair of brown checked trousers, surveying the scene. 
The old man never once withdrew his gaze from the sign ; 
but crept up as if he were on some clandestine business. 
His earnestness emptied the heavens, the earth, and the 
sea of all interest to the watchers; and the tremendous 
silence was broken by the hammer ringing out on the 
sign. The Bent Preen waved his arm. “ Smash it down ; 
it’s the flag o’ the devil.” His mocking laugh rivalled the 
sound of the hammer. “ Ha, ha, ha ! Dick, I’d sook 
whisky oot o’ a dirty cloot ; but I’m damned if I’d touch 
that thing for a’ the gold in the mint.” Again the 
metallic sound leapt out sharply — the sound of brass or 
bronze. It appeared to enrage the old man, for the blows 
now fell thickly, as if he were beating a tocsin. The gulls 
screamed and flew out to sea. The old man’s energy was 
amazing. His head was thrown up, an expression of 
the intensest hatred was on his face, and his Hps, curled 
back, gave him a savage appearance. The light glittered 
on the sign where he had struck it ; it was like a wound 
on a negro’s face. The wound seemed to outrage, to defy 
the old man, who struck with redoubled fury, aiming blow 
after blow at the painted dagger, till the hillside rang with 
the clashing sounds. Those beneath heard his laboured 
breathing — stertorous, panting in hot, quick sounds. 
The girl’s face, terror-stricken, was buried in her hands. 
Something abysmal surrounded Eoghan. The sound of 
those blows was coming out of a chasm of dead men’s 
bones, which rattled fiercely. He looked at Barbara, and 
thought that his grandfather and she shared some secret 
horror. He had a feeling of desolation, a sense of ruin. 
An exhalation of the accursed drifted about the place. 


GILLESPIE 


541 


4 Oh, please, please, Eoghan, stop him ! take him 
down ! The sounds ; oh, they are bursting through my 
ears ! ” 

The old man’s wrath was now demoniacal. He was 
hewing, not at brass, but at some sombre fatality as he 
gnashed his teeth and muttered between the short pants 
of his breathing. The sweat dripped from over a pair 
of blazing eyes. Eoghan swallowed his saliva, as if he 
was swallowing cinders. “ He’ll kill me with that ham- 
mer if I go up.” He leapt at the ladder, and began to 
run up on all fours, shouting, “ Come down ! come down ! ” 
but his voice was swamped in the gulf of sound. The 
rhythmical movement of the arm went on like a smith’s 
at the anvil. As the arm fell at a blow Eoghan shot 
out his hand and gripped the wrist of the old man, who 
glared down a look of malevolence. Again the hammer 
swung up. Eoghan saw the steel head glinting in the 
sun, and jerked his body across the ladder out of its track. 
It crashed down on a rung. There was a splintering of 
wood ; the hammer fell to the ground ; the ladder 
violently jerked ; swayed like a boat on the sea ; began to 
slide along the wall, slowly, then with accelerated motion ; 
and the next moment they were hurled to the ground, 
the ladder astraddle across their bodies. Eoghan felt 
something sharp and burning sting his forehead ; sucked 
something hot and salt, and knew it was blood. He opened 
his mouth to drink again the pungent liquid, and slid into 
a chasm of darkness, with a torrent of water roaring in 
his ears. The weight of a mountain lay across his chest. 
.... Something cold and soft was on his forehead ; but 
his eyes were sealed with molten lead. He put up his 
hand, and it was caught and held. What an intolerable 
time it took to open his eyes ! He was drawing light up 
into them out of eternity. At last they sucked up the 
light from the abyss, and he saw Barbara’s face. 


542 


GILLESPIE 


“ I fell off the ladder,” he said. He moved his head, 
and a pain shot through it. Suddenly he remembered. 
“ Grandfather ? ” 

“ Hush ! Eoghan dear ; you’ve cut your head and must 
lie quiet.” 

“ Grandfather ? ” he asked querulously. 

“ Dr. Maclean is in . . . grandfather is in bed . . 

The room began to wheel round. “ I’m dizzy, Barbara.” 
He put his hand in hers, and, like a tired child, closed his 
eyes. He was wrestling with some untoward phantom 
on a mountain peak. The dream deepened, the face of 
the phantom became sharply outlined ; he was struggling 
in a death-grip with the superintendent of the examination 
on the spire of the University. 


CHAPTER XII 


On the day after the accident Mrs. Galbraith came to 
the “ Ghost ” and offered her services as nurse. “ Mr. 
Strang and I are old friends,” she said, and her charming 
smile immediately won Barbara’s heart. Mrs. Galbraith 
was not only a capable woman within doors and an ex- 
cellent cook, but she read the Bible to old Mr. Strang, and 
the poets to Eoghan, the wound in whose head rapidly 
healed. Mrs. Galbraith and he had long discussions on 
philosophy and theology, and she induced him to read 
his own verses to her — mostly scraps and fragments. 
Mrs. Galbraith fell in love with the boy — an affection 
rather of the head than of the heart. She revered him 
for his gift and for his intellectual attainments, would sit 
big-bosomed at the bedside holding his hand, and in 
the morning, when she entered his room, would frankly 
kiss him on the forehead. When the wound in his head 
was healed, he set out to visit his mother, and determined 
on the way to call on Mr. Kennedy. With a sense of 
shame he walked up the dark avenue to the school- 
master’s house. Mr. Campion, with a familiar air of 
possession, and smoking a cigarette, opened the door. 
Eoghan, suspicious of strangers, felt the teacher’s pres- 
ence an intrusion, and abruptly asked for Mr. Kennedy. 
The teacher withdrew the cigarette from his mouth in 
amazement. 

“ Have you not heard ? Mr. Kennedy is dead.” 

Eoghan felt suddenly faint, and leaned against the 
jamb of the door, unable to speak. 

543 


544 


GILLESPIE 


“ Come in for a moment and rest.” 

Eoghan shook his head, and put out his foot, feeling for 
the step. He was stunned and blinded. Having groped 
his way to the walk he turned, and asked in a low voice : 
“When did he die?” 

Mr. Campion considered. “ About a month ago.” 

Eoghan felt suddenly overtaken by disaster, and, cast- 
ing a look of fear at the looming house, crept out of the 
garden. Anxious to avoid public gaze, he passed along 
the Back Street and down MacCalman’s Lane, at the end 
of which, at the corner of the Bank, the usual crowd of 
fishermen were assembled. He hesitated and stopped, 
timid of the passage into the fierce light of the Square. 
Their conversation was about his accident and that of 
his grandfather. Alert, he crouched against the wall. 
They were talking now of his father — who would be glad 
if the old man died; he would get his hands on the 
44 Ghost ” ; he meant to lock up his wife there. Every 
cruel, careless word of scandal burned in Eoghan’s brain. 
44 She’s senseless wi’ the booze. The Revivalists started 
a new kind o’ preachin’ aboot the Judgment Hay cornin’ 
soon, an’ she put on the white dress she was mairrit in to 
be pure, an’ threw hersel’ into the Hairbour. She was 
floatin’ away singin’ in a wee crackit voice when Ned o’ 
the Horn jumpit in ; an’ what dae ye think Gillespa’ said 
to poor Ned ? 4 Your breeks were in need o’ a cleanin’, 

Ned ; ye can thank my wife for that at your leisure.’ ” 
There was a boisterous outburst of laughter. 

“ It’s as weel Ned’s mairrit, or he’d soon get a lass.” 
The blood was drumming loudly in Eoghan’s ears. He 
recalled what he had overheard the tailor name his mother. 
It was true, then; Oh, God, it was true. She was the 
byword of the corners. He trembled so much that he 
was afraid he would fall. 

44 She’s only an auld bauchle o’ a whiire.” 


GILLESPIE 


545 


Again the devilish, inane laughter. He had to suppress 
a scream as he crept backwards along the wall. 

“ Unclean ! unclean ! ” The words rang in his brain as 
he crept in the gloaming along the Back Street, up the 
brae past the school, and cast himself face down in 
MacCalman’s Park, digging his nails into the soil. “ While 
there’s water to drown an’ steel to wound, a Strang ’ill 
no’ die in bed.” Where had he heard those words? he 
could not remember. The face of the speaker loomed 
bafflingly in a mist. “ I must kill her ; I must kill her ; 
it’s the only way.” Why had he not thought of this long 
ago ? Then a cunning thought came to him — he would 
watch and seize her in her sin. The day had been dark, 
with east wind ; the night was now gloomy as he staggered 
wearily to his feet. In the Back Street a thin rain fell 
on him, and on the herring gutters of Gillespie, as they 
trudged homeward. The chemist’s shop was closed ; the 
blinds were drawn in his father’s shop ; the Square was in 
semi-darkness ; and the moonless Harbour was like a slab 
of black granite. Eoghan loped across the Square, ran 
through the close, and up the stair into the kitchen. It 
was empty, and searched from corner to corner by the 
shadowless light of the lamp. He heard his father moving 
about in the shop below. Topsail, the pack-horse, was 
evidently on some business of her master. It was 
Gillespie’s custom, when the Fox was gone into the country 
with the horse, to dispatch Topsail with goods ordered by 
his customers during the day. Horror left Eoghan faint. 
He had determined to kill his mother ; but how ? “I shall 
stand no longer in the horses’ dung in the streets, our name 
a common reproach,” he thought. The empty kitchen 
testified to her baseness. How long had she carried on 
her nefarious trade ? “ We are disgraced, disgraced ; I can 
never walk in the streets again. Better for me to perish 
too.” He was in the midst of these maddening thoughts 

N N 


546 


GILLESPIE 


when his mother entered, with a shawl about her head. 
Her face was flushed; her eyes hot and brilliant. He 
walked straight up to her. 

“ Where have you been ? ” 

She took the shawl from her head, and replied with a 
weary gesture : 

“ Dearie me ! nobody heeds me noo ; Marget wouldn’t 
open the door.” 

“ Mrs. Galbraith is at the 4 Ghost,’ ” he replied fiercely. 

Her delicate head swayed forward on her thin neck. 

“ What is she doing there ? ” she leered at him. 

“ Grandfather fell off a ladder and has taken a shock.” 

“ Och ! och ! I’ve seen the shadow o’ death. It passed 
me by last night.” These words, spoken in a mournful 
tone, almost unmanned her son. She walked, shawl in 
hand, to the dresser, turned her back on him, and slipped 
a shilling in behind a large toddy bowl standing upright 
in the corner. Eoghan, watching her closely, heard the 
coin clink against the delf. He took a stride forward; 
but before he could reach her she snatched up the coin. 
He gripped her closed hand and opened it, displaying a 
silver coin, slightly tarnished. 

“ Where did you get it ? ” He pointed with his 
forefinger. 

She laughed shrilly. “ It might be frae ane o’ thae 
weary men.” A cunning look came into her face and eyes 
— the egomaniac’s desire of confession, mingled with the 
woman’s fear of detection. “ But Gillespie winna jaloose 
that I got it out o’ the till.” 

He knew that she lied. The hunted look on her face 
betrayed her. A surge of madness swept over him. 

“ God Almighty ! but this is the bonny pickle.” He 
snatched the coin from her. She pounced upon it with 
a snarl, and missed it ; her face became bewildered, bleak, 
and pinched. 


GILLESPIE 


547 


“ I’ll melt it,” he cried, in mad rage. “ I’ll cut the cross 
on it and melt it, and give it to my father to drink. He 
doesn’t like whisky.” 

She put the shawl up to her face, and peered at him over 
its edge. “Ye winna clype on me.” 

He spat on the coin, rubbed it on the sleeve of his 
jacket, and held it up. 

“Did ye ever see a leper? Jesus Christ cleansed 
them ” — the surge of madness was blinding him ; and his 
words became guttural as his voice thickened — “ Jesus 

Christ cleansed them ” He swayed upon his feet, his 

eyes burning on her face. “ Oh, God ! my heart’s 
broken.” The wail rang through the kitchen like a 
child’s. 

“ What’s wrong wi’ ye ? ” She stretched out a thin 
hand and moved towards him. He flung out his arm to 
ward her off. His temples were ready to burst with the 
throbbing of blood, and, recoiling from her against the 
dresser, his arm slouched across the toddy bowl, which 
rolled over and crashed in fragments at his feet. He 
pawed blindly in the ruin. 

“The b’ue bowl broken; that’s no’ chancy; it was 
granny’s. I’m feart something’s goin’ to happen.” 

He was appalled at this terrible detachment of mind. 
She insisted on the triviality, making it gigantic. “ It’s 
a peety the bowl’s broken; granny gied it to me in a 
marriage-present . ’ ’ 

All the world, time, and space stood still for him in 
that moment of utter hopelessness and despair. He 
stared in stupor at this woman, who was his mother 
no longer, but some one sprung from the loins of the 
gods of malice, sent to torment him. She did not 
know what fear or shame was, because such gods would 
rend the firmament between their hands as paper, and 
smile down upon the terror of mortals. Grief and panic 


548 


GILLESPIE 


leave them passionless, and they sup upon woe. She 
was their daughter. He heard her voice as of some one 
far away, and could not connect her words. Her face 
before him was dark, sinister, full of cunning — the face 
of a sphinx that has looked out across a thousand battle- 
fields and calmly watched the vultures plunge their hot 
beaks in dripping flesh. He believed in incarnate evil. 

“ When I cam 5 to him frae the Lonen 5 I’d a bonnie 
tocher; he stealt that. I’m the daughter o’ Lonen’. 
I was in the College for young ladies. Mr. Campion was 
in the College too ; an’ my son Iain’s in the College. He’s 
to be a minister, wi’ a’ the fowk that quate sittin’ lookin’ 
up at him. I can’t stand Gillespie Strang. He won’t 
allow the minister to come an’ see me.” A dazed look 
came over her face ; she seemed to be staring at something 
invisible. “ Dearie me ! I haven’t seen a minister for 
three years.” 

What was she saying? What right had a Sphinx to 
have such bleary eyes ? How stupidly her head sagged ! 
Why had such a graven image froth at the corners of her 
mouth ? 

“ Oh, my head, my head ! it’s liftin’ off.” She put 
her hands up across her temples, pressing her fingers hard 
on the top of her skull, and rocking her body with pain, 
“ I canna stand it ; my head ! my head ! Will ye no’ take 
my life an’ put me oot o’ torture ? ” 

Ha ! her life ! was he not there for that ? but who 
could slay such a daughter of malice ? He watched her 
mouth working constantly, as if she were gnawing on 
something. The muscles of her face seemed to be jerked 
from the inside by a concealed string, and a line of 
chalky white edged her lips. She steadied herself by a 
hand on the sink, and went backwards, collapsing on the 
stool at the fire. Again the stupid look came over her 
face, leaving her hollow eyes absolutely expressionless. 
Those homes of tenderness and love were dead — blackened 


GILLESPIE 


549 


embers of a lost fire. They gazed out upon the world 
without a sense of pain or intelligence. They were 
petrified in a face of stone. The hands alone possessed 
life, as they plucked at her lap. This Sphinx began 
rocking slowly to and fro, her knees twitching to the tune : 

“ O love, it is pleasin’, love, it is teasin’, 

O love ’tis a pleasure when it is new ” 

Hark to the voice of the ages singing, the voice that was 
locked in eternal frost, the voice that would not scare 
the ravening vultures from the slain. He laughed out 
aloud, and she lifted sullen eyes. 

“ My voice is crackit. I used to be the best singer 
in the Free Kirk.” 

He felt he was in a nightmare, and would waken anon. 

“ But as it grows older, the love it grows colder — — ” 

She broke off. Every fuddled word was a dagger raw in 
his heart. This must end. He approached her stealthily, 
and suddenly displayed the shilling. 

“ Tell me,” he snarled, shaking her by the shoulder, 
“ who gave it to you ? ” 

She felt she was listening to a deadly enemy, and stared 
at him fixedly to imprint the lineaments of the face of 
her foe on her memory. Then she screwed her face into 
an innocent look. “It’s you, Eoghan; you broke the 
b’ue bowl. It’s a bad sign. Granny said it was in the 
family since the Flood, an’ something no’ chancy wad 
happen if it got brocken.” Her forehead was seamed with 
wrinkles ; a chiding frown sat on her eyebrows. 

“ Tell me quick, by God ! ” — his voice broke with rage 
and hatred — “ tell me, till I kill him ! ” 

Her face darkened with a surge of blood upon this 
implacable enemy, and she attempted to struggle to her 
feet. His hand caught in her hair, which tumbled on her 
shoulders. This gave to her head a wild appearance; 


550 


GILLESPIE 


and her breath stank in his face. “ Oh, but I’m the bonny 
ane, Lonen’s daughter, among ye a’.” She lurched across 
the floor into the bedroom, sighing heavily. He heard 
her fumbling in the dark. Presently she returned to the 
threshold of the kitchen, and, watching her son with a 
sly look, complained of a heavy, sickening smell in the 
room, and babbled of poisoned lilies which she had eaten 
in Marget’s. Again she retreated to the bedroom ; and 
he heard the plunk of a cork. A mist grew before his eyes. 
His heart was about to burst in his breast. He followed 
her almost at a run. She was standing immediately 
inside the threshold, where she could have her eye on the 
kitchen, her figure ghostly in the stream of the lamp- 
light. A half mutchkin bottle was in her hand ; her head 
was tilted back ; and one eye, raging with demoniac light, 
was on the doorway. Despair paralysed him. The 
Sphinx face, smileless and bloodless, with cruelty in its 
stony flesh and a hawk-like craftiness in the single wild, 
wary eye, was devilish with its faint glitter of pleasure, 
and fed with the damnable fiery liquid, which he heard 
gurgling, gurgling. An insensate desire possessed him 
to strangle that mocking glitter of the roving eye, to 
stamp out for ever the evil in that grey, debauched face. 
He leapt forward and swung his clenched fist. She saw 
the danger, and, before he could avoid it, the whisky 
bottle crashed between his eyes. He was stung, tem- 
porarily blinded and maddened with the pain. The fist 
continued its curve through the air as he reeled back; 
he felt its impact upon bone, and a dirl go up his arm. 
He had struck her on the side of the head. He swung his 
arm a second time, but there was no evil eye, no sinister 
face before him. The stench of the spilled whisky, 
pungent in his nostrils, restored him completely to reality. 
With heaving breast he stood looking down at her; 
listened to her low moaning, and realised that she was 
alive. He heaved a sob of relief, and got down on his 


GILLESPIE 


551 


knees beside her, unconscious of the scalding of the whisky 
in his eyes. Tears mingled with the alcohol. He became 
the victim of unbounded remorse ; and his knees quivered 
so much that he was forced to sit upon the floor by her 
side. The silence of the room was now as the silence of 
death. The voice of the sea rose up hungrily across the 
Square and entered the room. Its voice was as the voice 
of one who had seen and cried aloud that there are things 
which cannot be kept out of the most secret place. He 
murmured her name ; at first in anguished accents, then, 
as her eyelids quivered and her eyes opened, in caressing 
tones. He lifted her head upon his knees, stroked her 
raven hair, and watched with hungry gaze every move- 
ment of her eyes. They were leaden and dull, and her 
lips were bloodless. She seemed deaf to his entreaties. 
The lines of pain and debauchery, which had vanished 
from her face, gradually crept back again, as by stealth. 
Her mouth was pathetically open, like a babe’s, and she 
began to speak a meaningless jumble, in which the names 
Campion and Marget recurred. “ How did I do it ? how 
did I do it ? ” played like a shuttle of flame through his 
brain. “ I am almost a murderer.” Horror shook him 
like a leaf in the blast. The darkness and the world 
without were full of stern, watchful eyes. She may die 
yet. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He 
scanned her face with a famished look. She was babbling 
of the strangest things in a whispering voice ; a spate of 
broken images ravaged her brain. She was going to 
London to see the crown jewels. Would Campion not give 
her a peacock’s feather for her hat to go to church ? “ I 

haven’t seen the minister for three years.” Iain was in 
prison; she was milking cows at Lonend; she was 
gathering flowers in the meadows there for Marget’s room. 
He bent over her, consumed with pity. Suddenly she 
began to weep, complaining of pain in her back. He 
tried to relieve her by easing her position; and at this 


552 


GILLESPIE 


juncture Topsail appeared, breathless from her hurry. 
With a sense of unspeakable relief, he shouted, “ My poor 
mother has fallen and hurt herself.” Topsail snatched up 
the kitchen lamp. 

“ Mercy me, laddie ; your face is a’ ower wi’ blood.” 

“ Never mind me ; get her to bed, quick.” 

They lifted her on to the bed, and Topsail, unlacing 
her boots, ordered him from the room. “ It’s no’ a place 
for you,” she said, with a kind, pitying glance ; “ she’s in 
wan o’ her black turns.” 

He waited in the dark kitchen till his patience 
was exhausted, and, returning to the room, found 
Topsail sitting in the bed behind his mother, who 
lay, with her knees hunched up to her chin, between 
Topsail’s legs. In the night-dress she looked gaunt and 
wasted to the bone ; her face like clay, her head hung 
limply to one side. Pain had engraved its lines once more 
on her face, and the deeply sunk eyes looked out at him 
above the lantern jaws strangely, as if she were a being 
of another race from a remote world. The lower teeth 
protruded on the upper lip, giving to the mouth a slack, 
cadaverous expression. She had the appearance of a 
famished animal. On her hand, stretched along the 
coverlet, he could trace the line of the bone whitening 
along the back of the wrist. He seemed to be looking 
upon a skeleton, and shook with fear — a skeleton that was 
moaning. “ I never thocht I’d come to this — a sair, sair 
bed.” 

“ My God! ” he whispered hopelessly, “ is she going to 
die ? ” 

Topsail shook her head, indicating her hopelessness. 
“ We’re a’ puir things when it comes to this — puir things 
in a Higher Hand.” 

“ Ay ! rub me there below the shoulders. Oh ! Oh ! 
it gangs through me like a knife ! ” He fell on his knees at 
the bedside and took her hand, which was icy cold 


GILLESPIE 


553 


“ Will the Almighty no’ gie me peace one hour, that I’ll 
can win a wee sleep ? ” 

“ I’ll go for Maclean.” He jumped to his feet. 

Topsail shook her head. “ It’s wan o’ the black turns. 
Gie her wan o’ thae white pooders.” She directed him 
where to find them. “ She’s no’ to get ower many, the 
doctor said, in case she sleeps awa’.” 

He prepared the powder, and held the tumbler to her 
lips. 

“ Oh ! Oh ! it’s goin’ through me like lances, something’s 
teirin’ inside me.” She swallowed the liquid, gasping 
over it. “ Rub me, rub me.” Topsail leaned back and 
began rubbing her between the shoulder-blades. “ Oh, 
the drouth, the drouth ! my tongue’s like leather.” 

He hurried and brought her water. Finding it cool 
at her lips, she raised her deep, sunken eyes and, gripping 
the tumbler, mouthed it in her eagerness, and drank 
ravenously. He turned his eyes from the sickening sight, 
and heard her make little sounds of gladness at each 
gulp. 

“ Take a little more, mother.” 

“ No, no ! I’ve drank what wad do the hale toon. 
Oh ! Oh ! I feel as if I’m drawn separate. If the Almighty 
wad only gie me one wee hour. I haven’t asked muckle 
o’ Him a’ my days ” 

She now lay silent, belching wind ; then moaned again : 
“ Och, och ! the sweat ; the caul sweat’s lashin’ ower me.” 
Her head fell a little more awry against Topsail’s knee; 
her breathing became regular. In a little she opened her 
eyes and gazed vacantly round the room. 

“ Dearie me ! lyin’ sae muckle on my heid, I’m losin’ 
my memory,” she said. 

Topsail nodded to him, smiling cheerily. “ She’s got 
ower ’t, puir sowl.” The white powder had done its 
work. His mother was fast asleep between the legs of her 
faithful slave. 


CHAPTER XIII 


That night Eoghan was crushed by anxiety, and existed 
in a saturnalia of horror. The curtains of the window 
could not keep out the choking night or the gloom of old 
haunted forests which was in the room. A foreboding of 
evil was every moment about to be realised — a misshapen 
thing of fear about to rise up before him in vindictive, 
inexorable rage. His anguish became frenzied. He was 
like a man in a desert surrounded in the night by prowling 
beasts, whose sinister roar was every moment about to 
burst on his ear. He shuddered as he thought of the 
bewildering depths to which human nature can sink. 
His mother’s face swam up before him — a marble face 
in which the only sign of life was the pain-drenched eyes. 
His hatred and his loathing were gone, along with the 
desire to slay her, and his heart, heavy within him, pitied 
her. At last, overcome by fatigue, he fell asleep, and 
dreamed that his mother and he were gathering flowers 
in the meadows of Lonend. He brought the flowers in 
armfuls — lilies, and lilies of the valley, and wild violets, 
wet with dew — and strawed them on her dressing-table, 
on the floor, on the bed; everywhere he filled her room 
with their perfume; and the canaries sang from the 
ceiling ; and the sanctity of the fragrance, and the richness 
of the bird-song defended her, and kept her feet from 
wandering in the night. Then he saw her lying in a 
coffin, with the flowers he had gathered heaped about her 
— pale lilies in her hair, lilies of the valley on her breast, 
and the canaries stunned and mute in their cages. She 

554 


GILLESPIE 


555 


smiled up at him with the assured smile of death, with the 
peace that laughs at shame, and which the gloomy sound 
of the sea shall never break. The noise of the sea — 
surely it was loud in his ears . . . He was awake, bathed 
in sweat. For a moment he lay supine within the doors 
of the dream, hoping it was true — that outrage, indecency, 
shame, oppression were for ever at an end, that the trump 
of God had sounded and the supreme hour had come. 
Beneath his window a drunken voice was singing : 

“ Oh, DonaP ! Oh, DonaP ! 

Drink your gless, lad, an’ gang awa’ hame, 

For if ye tarry langer ye’ll get a bad name ; 

Ye’ll get a bad name, sae fill yersel’ fou*. 

The lang wud’s sae dreary, but I’ll see you through.’* 

He groaned. Nothing was changed. Another day of 
weariness and horror had broken. 

She was up at the breakfast-table along with Topsail. 
He was astonished at his mother’s hardiness. She seemed 
to smile at misfortune and defy prostration. Her face, 
though unbroken, had the appearance of being scarred. 
Earlier that morning her moods had bewildered Topsail. 
She had come into the kitchen, her hair adorned with a 
bright artificial flower, which she had discovered while rum- 
maging in the parlour, and, getting down on her knees, began 
to wash the floor. Topsail protested, but her mistress in- 
formed her that it was by the doctor’s orders. Half-way 
through her task she desisted, feigning a vomiting. She 
had forgotten the tawdry decoration nodding grotesquely 
in her hair, and Topsail snatched it away when she heard 
Eoghan’s footstep in the passage. 

His mother, who sat by the fire at the head of the table, 
with a spent look, seemed to have forgotten the incident 
of the previous night. She wakened up to say to Eoghan 
that he ought to marry Barbara. Her voice was hoarse, 


556 


GILLESPIE 


probably the effect of her wandering about in all sorts of 
weather. He was amazed, and, flushing deeply, asked her 
her reason for this exhortation ; but she had lapsed again 
into silence. The fact is she had conceived that Mr. 
Campion was in love with Barbara, and a blind rage 
against Eoghan, who did not express instant willingness 
to marry the girl, possessed her. She arose, and suddenly 
snatching the kettle from the hob, poured some of its 
boiling water on Eoghan’s hand. He jumped up, smarting 
with pain and convulsed with rage, but was unable to 
utter a word at sight of his mother’s apathetic face. She 
appeared to be unconscious of her treacherous deed. 
Topsail hastened with soap and a cloth. 

“ I’m going for Maclean,” he said ; “ she’s mad.” 

At the mention of the doctor’s name she became highly 
cunning, protesting that her health was good. Eoghan 
showed her his bandaged hand, and taxed her with her 
folly. She lied audaciously, and battered down irre- 
fragable proof. In fact, she was not so much guilty of 
lying, as that the memory of her crimes became rapidly 
dim. Eoghan was aghast, and, hurrying across the 
Square, asked Kyle to send the doctor to examine his 
mother. When Maclean arrived in the afternoon, she 
was openly perspicacious. He instructed Topsail that 
her mistress was not to be allowed out at night, and must 
constantly be watched. He was no sooner gone than, in 
a violent fit of passion, Mrs. Strang smashed a pot with the 
poker, attempted to tear off her clothes, and accused her 
son of inducing the doctor to perform a highly dangerous 
operation on her person, with a view to taking away her 
life. She now conceived an intense hatred for Eoghan, 
and cloaked it by informing Topsail that he was seriously 
ill, and could not live very long. She spoke these 
words in a whisper, creeping stealthily to Topsail’s ear, 
exhibiting every sign of sorrow and beginning to weep. 


GILLESPIE 


557 


Topsail, to console her, scouted the idea, and her mistress, 
desiring Topsail to kiss her, suddenly bit the servant on 
the neck. Her countenance was perturbed and her eyes 
wild, as she retreated to the stool at the fire, where she 
sunk into a state of gloomy torpor, and preserved this 
obstinate taciturnity for the rest of the afternoon, rousing 
herself only to complain of intense thirst, and opening her 
mouth to show Topsail how hard and dry were her palate 
and her tongue. She screamed out in her servant’s face 
that she was being strangled, and Topsail, beside herself, 
appeased her by giving her a large quantity of whisky. 

When Gillespie came upstairs for tea — he had reverted 
to the practice of taking his meals in the house since the 
return of Eoghan — he asked Topsail to fetch his spectacles 
from the bedroom. He wore these now in the evenings 
when poring over his books. Topsail returned without the 
spectacle case. The events of the day had left her stupid. 

“ I saw a licht like the licht o’ a can’le dancin’ on the 
bed. It gied wan blink an’ went oot,” she said, with awe. 

“ Noane o’ thae noansense in my hoose.” Gillespie’s 
voice was louder than usual, and he jerked Topsail by 
the arm into a chair. “ Sit doon, will ye ; ye’re doitered.” 

‘ ‘ Wheest , Gillespie . ’ ’ His wife touched him on the sleeve . 
“ Is it no’ a warnin’ ? I dreamt last night that the hoose 
was in confusion an’ granny’s b’ue bowl was brocken. 
Eoghan’s no’ lookin’ weel.” She trailed away, wringing 
her hands, and passed into the next room, where they 
heard her searching with frantic hands about the bed. 
Gillespie rose with horrible quietness, his upper lip slightly 
drawn up in a snarl, walked round the table, his head 
butting forward, and, tip-toeing towards Topsail, clenched 
his fist. Neither spoke a word. As if turned to stone 
Topsail awaited the blow. Looking down into her mute, 
uplifted eyes, he struck her full on the face. Without 
sound or moan her head fell across the back of the chair, 


558 


GILLESPIE 


and blood oozed from her mouth. Gillespie raised his 
clenched hand a second time ; but his wife appeared from 
the room crying shrilly, 44 I hear the death-watch tick, 
tick, tickin’.” 

Slowly the clenched fist opened; the arm dropped 
heavily to the side, and at the voice of her mistress 
Topsail opened her eyes, which fell full on Gillespie. 

44 Janet,” he said slowly, 44 my he’rt’s roasted for 
Eoghan.” Topsail’s eyes smiled faintly. “ I owe ye 
twa — three years’ wages ; ” and turning on his heel, he 
rapidly walked away to relieve Sandy the Fox, custodian 
of the shop. 

His son was standing in the shop in the scud of the 
light, gazing into nothingness, and Gillespie, with a fierce 
heart-hunger, furtively watched him. The face was 
deplorably thin and white and full of sorrow. 

44 I dinna think ye’re as weel as ye micht be, Eoghan.” 
Gillespie deprecated this interest with a soft laugh. 
4 4 Gang an’ pack your pockmanty an’ off to Edinboro’ the 
morn for a jaunt.” 

44 It’s too late for that.” The mournful words troubled 
Gillespie. 

44 Are ye no’ feeling weel ? ” A deep tide, long throttled, 
was rising up within Gillespie. 44 Ye’d better gang, 
Eoghan; dinna heed for siller.” 

Eoghan shuddered. 44 Keep your money.” 

The tone in which those words were uttered brought 
a sense of guilt home to Gillespie. It is from the top of 
the hill of iniquity that the mountain of righteousness is 
best discerned. Gillespie saw that peak all the more 
glorious, that it was receding for ever. 

44 Here I stay till death gives me release.” The words 
burst out of his son’s breast in despair, and Gillespie 
became terrified, feeling his world melting away beneath 
the dews of death. He thrust his face nearer his son’s. 
What he saw there made him recoil. 


GILLESPIE 


559 


“ Son ! son ! 55 

At this cry of misery the son gazed at the father with 
all his broken heart in his eyes, and moaning, “ Oh, God ! 
I am weary,” staggered against the counter — that altar 
where so many hearts had been broken. A draught from 
the back door swirled through the shop. Mrs. Strang 
appeared. It was years since she had been there. While 
seated in the kitchen she had suddenly fancied that her 
husband’s business was going to ruin for want of her help 
and supervision. 

“ What’s wrang noo ? ” The tone was full of petulance, 
and she nodded, as if in answer to an unheard voice, as she 
reeled forward between father and son. “ Maggie Shaw 
has a baby ” — there was a whimpering smile on her face. 
Gillespie made a hard, swallowing sound, and looked over 
her shoulder at his son. 

“I’m coaxing Eoghan to tak’ a jaunt to Edinboro’,” he 
said, wetting his lips with his tongue. 

“ Dearie me ! dearie me ! I was at school there.” 

“ He’s no’ lookin’ ower herty on’t.” 

“ Poor Eoghan ! poor Eoghan ! ” She began to weep. 
“ He’s no’ himsel’ at a’. He’ll soon be by wi’t. Ay ! it’s 
a bonnie place, Edinboro’.” She smiled with infinite 
cunning at her husband. 

“ Mother and me will go,” sobbed the boy. 

“ Weel ! weel ! ” Gillespie’s face shone. “ If ye want 
your mother we’ll manage till you win back.” 

“ It’ll be a long journey, mother.’* He left the counter 
— another heart had been laid upon that altar — and passed 
behind her out of the shop. Gillespie gripped his wife 
by the shoulder. “ Get him to gang wi’ ye, an’ I’ll gie 
ye a new dress.” She leered, licking her bluey lips. 
“ Dae ye hear, wumman,” — he shook her violently— “ my 
life’s scaddit every time I look at his face.” She cowered 
away from his hand, and made a mocking sound and a 
sardonic grimace. 


CHAPTER XIV 


When Mrs. Strang’s head was very bad she complained 
of deafening thunder, and one afternoon awoke out of 
her lethargic state and mourned that the Square was full 
of bleating sheep, which she insisted on herding to the 
folds of Lonend. She spat in Topsail’s face when her 
servant laid a restraining hand upon her, and then at- 
tempted to lick the spittle. Topsail Janet was bewildered, 
for that afternoon her mistress had evinced deep concern 
for her servant’s rheumatism, which was very painful with 
the winter sleet. Mrs. Strang suggested a dozen cures, 
and would not be hindered from rubbing Topsail’s knuckles 
with turpentine and tying on bandages of flannel. Top- 
sail was thoroughly happy at this. “ Hoo can I get 
through my work wi’ thae cloots on my hand ?” she cried 
merrily. 

“ There’s no work, Janet, wi’ Iain in the jyle.” 

Topsail, alarmed at the answer, submitted to the 
ministrations in silence ; and her mistress wept for her 
servant’s suffering. “ You’ve more to thole than me, 
Janet, far more; you’ve burnin’ nettles on your hands,” 
and almost as she looked pityingly at her servant her talk 
became very loose, and was accompanied by silly grimaces. 
It turned on her marriage and on sexual things. Her 
colour ran high ; she became excited, and began to search 
the rooms. Eoghan, coming up the stair — he seldom went 
out now by day — heard her in a hoarse voice telling Top- 
sail that Mr. Campion was concealed somewhere in the 
house. The name of this gentleman was frequently on 

560 


GILLESPIE 


561 


his mother’s lips, but speculation as to the reason was cut 
short by the tragic spectacle of his mother’s distress. She 
was wandering through the house wringing her hands, and 
moaning that the breath of dogs was on her face — would 
no one give her a hatchet to kill them ? — and there was 
fire in the sleet. 

“ Good God ! this is terrible ! ” he groaned to Topsail. 

“ Ay ! ay ! she’s fair distractit. Goad keep her.” 

Mrs. Strang backed away from her bedroom, complain- 
ing of an offensive smell there, due, she repeated over and 
over, to a dead rat. Topsail tried to coax her with a cup 
of tea, but she refused it, saying there was no taste in 
food. She tottered as she walked, fell in the passage 
as she was making for the parlour, and betrayed no sign 
of pain. She caught Topsail’s hands when they lifted 
her up and laid them on her breast. “ Oh, Janet ! Janet ! 
my heart is as heavy as lead, an’ my breasts are like ice.” 
Topsail led her to the kitchen stool, where she began to 
babble of her husband’s business. It would fall to pieces 
without her control; for want of her ministrations the 
cattle in the byre at Lonend were dying. She got up and, 
passing to her room, began to rummage in the drawers. 
“ Iain’s starvin’ o’ cold in the jyle; he hasna a stitch to 
put on.” She turned out a welter of old things, sat in 
their midst, staring fatuously, and playing with a piece 
of black ribbon as a child amuses itself with a toy. 

Eoghan, seated at the kitchen fire, was faint with 
palpitation. The unspeakable calamity which he was 
witnessing was slowly killing him. He felt as if red-hot 
chains bound his body, which the next moment became 
icy cold. His mother reappeared in the kitchen, a 
distraught look on her face, and catching sight of the sleet 
on the roof of the washing-house, moaned : 

“ Ring the bell, Janet; ring the bell an’ tell me when 
the snow is gone; it’s full o’ fire.” She harped on this 
oo 


562 


GILLESPIE 


with weary iteration, till Eoghan, groaning and gnawing 
on his lip, ran through the kitchen and to the ree, and 
asked Sandy the Fox to go and sweep the coating of snow 
from the washing-house roof. By this time his mother 
had forgotten her terror of the snow, and attempted to 
rise from her chair. “ I can’t go, Janet : my legs are 
as heavy as lead.” Topsail took her by the arm. “ No ! 
no ! my body’s swelled so big ; I can’t get through the 
door.” She planted her feet firmly and refused to 
move. 

So it went on day by day. Her will power had ceased 
to operate. Wandering in shadows, and seeing as through 
clouds, she was completely indifferent to the moral 
necessity in human nature. Repulsive deeds exercised 
a peculiar fascination over her. Topsail Janet caught 
her one day perfectly naked descending the outside stair. 
Sleet was falling and melting on her skin ; but she seemed 
impervious to the rawness of the atmosphere. She con- 
tracted a cold, which shook her in spasms of coughing, and 
she began to spit blood. She became rapacious for drink, 
which Maclean had strictly forbidden. She resorted to 
the most cunning methods, sending messages to the driver 
of the mail-coach to bring whisky from Ardmarkie. The 
bottle she concealed among the dross in the coal cellar in 
the washing-house. Her violent outbursts scared Topsail, 
whom she terrorised into procuring whisky, declaring she 
would burn down the house. On her knees Topsail im- 
plored her mistress, promising her anything in the world. 
She looked at Topsail Janet maliciously, and suddenly 
jerking her head forward attempted to fasten her teeth 
in Topsail’s throat. The servant, beside herself, gripped 
the maniac by the arms, forced her back in her seat, and 
held her there till the rigidity of her body relaxed, and she 
wilted up into a pitiable huddle. The two women, 
breathing fast, gazed in at each other’s eyes ; Mrs. Strang, 


GILLESPIE 


563 


with a look of hatred at Topsail, whose face was bleached 
with fear. Her mistress, pointing a malicious forefinger, 
burst into sardonic laughter, which was cut short by a 
severe fit of coughing. This poor creature was a spectacle 
of pity for all eyes, human and divine. 

The next day she poured forth a torrent of calumny 
against her servant, her husband, and her son, and watch- 
ing her opportunity, when Topsail was in the coal cellar, 
stole across the Square to Kyle’s shop. Eyeing him 
furtively she asked for poison. She could not remember 
the name of any specific poison, but said it was for rats. 
Kyle gave her a bottle of water coloured with cochineal, 
which she concealed in her pocket. Extremely affable to 
Topsail, she dispatched her to the bedroom for a comb, 
and immediately emptied the contents of the bottle into 
a pot of potato soup. At the dinner-hour she feigned 
sickness, and sat watching narrowly her husband and son 
as they ate, and she chattered so incessantly and rationally 
that Eoghan thought the cloud had lifted from her mind. 
After dinner she kept whispering to Topsail that her 
husband and son looked to be in a wretched state of 
health, and that they could not live long. She showed no 
surprise at finding them still alive the next day. She 
imagined that poison could not destroy them. 

The horror of his life banished sleep from Eoghan. 
The grey light of the dawn would find him wide-eyed, 
snatching back his mother’s words, gestures, looks, and 
magnifying them till she became a grotesque, gibbering 
apparition of dread. He trembled at the light of the 
morning, and the pitiableness of his life made him bury 
his face in the pillow in a fury of despair. He envied 
Topsail when he heard her ryping out the ashes in the 
kitchen grate in the grey dawn. His mother, so hope- 
lessly incompetent, debauched, and now mad, was a power 
embattled overwhelmingly against him. He had given 


564 


GILLESPIE 


up his darling dreams of the cloisters; his ideals were 
smeared as with the slime of a serpent; chains were 
loaded upon him. He leapt from bed. A blue mist lay- 
on the Harbour, which was brittle and still as glass. 
Everything in the mist had a dim, indescribable softness, 
and the boats were but half seen through the veil as in a 
magic land. A garment of hoar-frost clothed the hills. 
The still beauty of the morning, hanging as from the 
heavens, took him by the throat. A robin with bold, 
flamboyant breast lit on the window-sill, and cocked up a 
bright eye at him. He went to the kitchen for crumbs 
to feed the tiny life, and watched with pity the blood-red 
breast swell and flit away. 

He had not visited the “ Ghost ” for days. He would 
go now, before Brieston was astir. His grandfather was 
totally paralysed on the right side, and mumbled so 
thickly that no one could understand him. Maclean had 
warned Mrs. Galbraith that the shock was likely at any 
time to be followed by another, which would probably 
prove fatal. Mrs. Galbraith and Barbara, on alternate 
nights, sat up with the old man. 

Barbara admitted him. They looked at each other 
sorrowfully as he took her in his arms. She was parched 
with vigil. 

“ He’s had a peaceful night,” she said, in a heavy voice, 
and, turning aside to the window, added : “ Look, 

Eoghan dear, the day is breaking over the hills.” 

“Yes, breaking; breaking in eternal pain,” he 
answered mournfully. 

There was no talk of love between them whom suffering 
and grief had united as man and woman. Hand in hand 
they stood at the window, and saw the trees near the 
house on the burnside shiver in the dawn-wind, and the 
great hills march on at the head of the Loch, mile upon 
mile of imperturbable majesty, to meet the kindling 


GILLESPIE 


565 


light. The spectacle wrung a profound sigh from the 
depths of his breast — the purity, the peace, the strength, 
the beauty and calm of the high places of God. He 
turned to the girl and tenderly dismissed her. “ Go 
to bed, Barbara, you’re worn out. I’ll wait for Mrs. 
Galbraith.” 

She held up her mouth, as a child, to be kissed. Hour 
after hour she had sat attentive upon the grey face sunk 
in the pillow, and her soul was one incessant prayer 
to the God of life and death. He had housed her as 
a dove in a nest ; had named to her the names of good- 
ness, purity, and love. The days he had made gentle 
for her with a solicitude that was almost maternal. 
His hand had been upon her, a refuge and a support, 
from the hour in which death had darkened her home. 
She had lived in happiness and peace in the shadow 
of his age. With great sorrow she recognised that some- 
thing noble and sweet, redemptive, solacing, and pro- 
tective, was passing away from her for ever in lonely, 
unuttered agony. Often she retired to the foot of the 
bed to weep silently there. Her body became sapless ; 
her hair dry and brittle, her face grievously wasted and 
pale. In the watches of the night she felt that old, sullen 
death was creeping stealthily towards the bed. A granite 
mass of despair crushed her, and sinking on her knees she 
would lay her face on the coverlet with an unuttered 
poignant cry : “ Grandad ! Grandad ! my heart is break- 
ing ! ” and the eyes that were inflexible upon the ceiling 
would sweep tenderly upon the bowed head ; but sorrow, 
prostrate upon its altar, would lose the benediction. 
Prone beneath the talons of anguish, she would miss the 
holy breathing of those eyes. 

She turned from Eoghan and, approaching the bed, put 
her arms gently beneath the old man’s head, and kissing 
him on the brow and cheek, said, “ Good-bye, grandad, 


566 


GILLESPIE 


for a wee whilie.” The eyes, having followed her hungrily 
to the door, returned to their vigil on the ceiling. Eoghan 
sat by the bed ; but the old man never attempted to move 
or speak. He seemed plunged in profound, unclouded 
dreams. The eyes had the upward, unwavering look that 
belongs to the dead. Day will mingle with the twilight 
and night roll into the morning ; but nothing on earth will 
evoke the voice already summoned into silence, or restore 
from the dusk to those grey eyes the light which had gone 
out thence in a wild sunset. The bitterness of Eoghan’ s 
cup was full. He scarce heard Mrs. Galbraith when she 
came down at seven o’clock and began the day by reading 
to the old man the mighty words, “ ‘ Who shall separate us 
from the love of Christ ? Shall tribulation , or distress , 
or persecution , or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or 

sword ? ’ ” and when she had finished the sublime 

passage in a voice broken by emotion : “ ‘ For I am per- 
suaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor princi- 
palities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, 
nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able 
to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus 
our Lord,' ” the old man moved his left arm off the coverlet 
and muttered unintelligibly with a despairing force of 
energy. Eoghan thought that his heart would burst in 
his breast and, unable to control himself, ran out of the 
room. 


CHAPTER XV 


Gillespie slept now in the parlour, because he was 
disturbed by his wife, who would get up either to search 
the room for vermin or to look for dead babies. Topsail 
Janet had the greatest difficulty in understanding what 
she said. She complained of bells ringing in her head, and 
that she saw the faces of the dead following her about; 
but chiefly that she was spied upon by husband and son, 
who meant to take her life for her crimes. Some dark 
night they were going to throw her into the Harbour. 
This was now her constant dread. “ In two weeks I’ll 
be drowned,” she whispered to Topsail Janet. She 
determined that her enemies must be put out of the way. 
She was unable to endure their persecution any longer. 

For the past two days she had been sunk in a stupor, 
in which she had only spoken once, in a refusal to go to 
bed, on which lay a dead child to which she had given 
birth. Eoghan had heard her say this, and was almost 
mad himself when she stuttered, “Is Mr. Campion no’ 
cornin’ to see his baby ? ” 

The words kept repeating themselves in his brain. He 
thought nothing now of the scandal that seethed and 
blistered at the corners and the “Shipping Box” — 
“ Gillespie’s wife’s makin’ a caul’ bed o’t.” He had 
passed beyond that — Brieston and its malevolent eyes, 
and its malice hissing into his life. For him the throne of 
the Deity had receded into an abyss, and a stony God 
gloomed down from the height of eternity, on whose mar- 
moreal breast there was a hollow, where He had leaned 

567 


568 


GILLESPIE 


over his eyrie from the ages of the ages. Of late he had 
ceased to think of or hope in the Deity. His soul was 
broken up in a vast ruin. He saw a large, impassive, 
determinate hand in the heavens shaking a dagger, 
beneath which the accurst, the tainted, and the innocent 
alike were driven. “ ‘ The gods of wrath are in the 

sun ’ Good God ! ” he cried out, “I’m laughin’, 

I’m laughin’ ; I’m goin’ mad.” He ran to the mirror and 
stared at his face. It was drained to a livid whiteness, 
and subtly underwent a transformation. He was looking 
in upon the very lair of life. “ That’s not me,” he 
whispered in fear. “ Eoghan ! oh, Eoghan ! ” 

Completely exhausted from want of food that day, 
want of sleep and the torment of thought, he fell back on 
the bed, hoping that he might die in his sleep. It was 
now the grey dusk of the last day of the year. At first 
he slept as if in lead, so utterly wearied he was, and was 
disturbed by dream after dream. He was being carried 
off on wild horses with cometary manes threshing the 
heavens. He began to babble of gibbets which he saw, 
and chains of lightning frozen by a supernatural cold, and 
a multitude of priests droning of hell. He fell sheer down 
one cavern of smooth black walls into another fiery with 
waves of flame. The flames lit up axes with bloody edges 
hanging from a ceiling. Like a stone he dropped through 
the running flames into a thick dark river which, to his 
horror, he found was black, clotted blood. A loud booming 
arose out of this bottomless world, and a rain of bloody 
sweat from the Gethsemane of humanity fell thick on the 
black river and congealed. Cries of the damned ascended 
in sulphurous clouds. Rain ! blood ! disease ! con- 
tagion ! flame ! and he screamed out in answer : “Oh, 
naked soul, this is a wild place ! ” 

He was sitting up in bed, his heart hammering violently 
against his ribs, having forgotten for the moment where 


GILLESPIE 


569 


he was. The day had been sunless and stormy, and the 
thick, solemn night had fallen as if it were the last night 
in the world. The wind leapt with quick claps over the 
Harbour, and its noise was upon the Quays, the Harbour 
wall, the streets, the house. It whined away over the 
hills, dying beyond human confines. He suddenly re- 
membered what awaited him, his vigil and his anguish, 
and was filled with a mournful sense of the vastness and 
futility of life, and a great inscrutable Presence standing 
over it, calm as the dead. In a flash he saw the tall police- 
man in Argyll Street directing the traffic of Glasgow, and 
flower girls in the blue, greasy mud of the city, blind men 
groping with their dogs, ambulance vans hurrying, strange 
women hovering at the doors of theatres. Why did these 
things come to him ? Was he going mad ? And Mr. 
Kennedy’s face, grave and white, shining out of clouds ; 
and swinging high up in the dark the red cross of the 
ambulance vans, and beneath the cross, over an in- 
carnadined world, the pierced feet of the Redeemer, august 
in His torment. Wave upon wave of darkness swept 
over his soul. A vast shutter opened on a gulf ; an ebon 
wall rolled out of this gulf on silent wheels; and as it 
was about to whelm him, with a crest of jet foam it 
suddenly contracted into a cone-shape which, entering 
his body, spread fan-wise over his soul, smothering him 
in an inky cloud. He began to weep softly. The 
titanic wall of pitch rolled from his shoulders over the 
stump of a pier, to sink into the sea like a black mist* 
Again the shutters of the dark moved swiftly, pulled 
upwards by an invisible hand, and another inky wall 
stalked up from the abyss, rolling on wheels of dense smoke. 
He felt blinded. The wheels of smoke rolled down upon 
him with slow, roaring ponderousness. Would the Eternal 
Mercy never relieve the gloom ? Those wheels would 
crush him into pulp. The sea over the stump of pier sent 


570 


GILLESPIE 


up peal after peal of demoniac laughter. It had waited 
for him, ever waited, with its horrible eyes of fire, since 
he was a boy. He was running from it past the “ Ghost.” 
He had run this way before, when his mother had gathered 
up Iain beneath the eyes of the Magdalene out of the hollow 
deep. A lightning flash blinded him, and he opened his 
eyes. Good God ! he was dreaming again ; and, sitting 
up in bed, he shook himself like a dog bewildered. 
Thunder suddenly roared about the house. He jumped 
from bed and ran into the parlour. The Square was 
brilliantly lit, and loud with the roystering voices of the 
“ first foots ” preparing to bring in New Year. It was 
Hogmanay night, or “ wee Setterday,” and the shops 
would be open late. Even children, undismayed by 
the growling heavens, were singing the swan-song of 
the year. Their voices floated up to him from the 
Square : 

“ Hogmanay, Hogmanay ; 

If ye’ll no 5 ' gie’s oor Hogmanay 
We’ll break your door before the day.’* 

He, too, had sung that song from door to door for a 
piece of bun or an orange. 

“ Rise up, auld wife, an’ shake your feathers, 

Dinna think that we are beggars. 

We are only boys an’ girls 
Come to seek our Hogmanay.” 

Tears blinded him. It seemed only yesterday that he 
had struck the tents of boyhood. The childish voices 
became unbearable : 

“ This is wee Setterday, 

Next day’s cock-a-law.” 

Never, never more, his breaking heart was crying ; those 
voices were tearing at his heart : 

“ We’ll come back on Monday 
An’ gie ye a’ a ca’ ” 


GILLESPIE 


571 


Shrill and gleeful rang the carolling through the Square. 
Again the unappeasable yearning to mingle with them, 
to be a boy again ! Ah ! little children, you, the be- 
getters of dreams, who turn men’s hearts to water as they 
listen, and flood the bare trees of age with green, what 
anguish your joyance and innocence can cause to those 
burdened with remorse ! What a sense of estrangement 
you bring to men, with your wonderful immunity from 
life and its vicissitudes ! What despair you can cause 
as you tramp out of the Square, careless of the thundering 
skies, and leave one stripped of all hope, staring across 
the lights of the Square into the gulf of the night, with a 
deeper gulf of darkness surrounding his soul. 

The kitchen was empty. He shook with dread at the 
discovery. “ She must be with Janet ; she must be with 
Janet,” he thought. He was about to discover something 
quite different. That morning Topsail had been at the 
wash-tub. She had steeped the things the day before, and 
towards noon had hung out the clothes in the back green, 
where the cats congregate, and as the north wind ruffled 
her hair she dreamt beneath the line of a merry baker 
taking in the New Year, playing upon a flute. She saw 
Maclean pass up the stair. What a man he was ! Pat, 
his driver, had told Jeck the Traiveller how he had 
gone in the face of a snowstorm to a case of child- 
birth. 

“ Two lives depending on us ; give the mare hell an’ 
get her through.” He had to crawl through the snow- 
drifts to the shepherd’s door. 

Topsail gazed with adoring eyes at the man who went 
through the snow to bring babies into the world. He 
came out again with Gillespie, and stood on the stair- 
head, looking so stern that Topsail trembled. 

“ Is she failin’ that sair ? ” she heard Gillespie ask. 

Maclean, who had found her pulse feeble and rapid, 


572 


GILLESPIE 


made no answer. He pulled out his watch and looked at 
the dial. He was still looking when Topsail heard him 
say, “ The spring flowers will be growing over her head.” 

Topsail felt her knees giving way beneath her, and saw 
the top of the house rising and falling upon a suddenly 
darkened sky. 

“ God keep us a’ ; an’ Ne’er Day the morn. A sair, 
sair Ne’er Day it’ll be,” she moaned. 

In the afternoon Sandy the Fox and she carried in the 
clothes, because it was unlucky to leave them out over 
the last night of the year. The Fox informed her that 
after tea she must go with a basket of things to West 
Loch Brieston. This was in spite of Maclean’s instruc- 
tions to Gillespie that his wife must be narrowly watched. 
It was after eight o’clock before Topsail Janet was able 
to set out obscurely by the Back Street. As soon as she 
had left, her mistress, who had not spoken all day, passed 
swiftly down the stair and along the passage to the coal 
cellar in the washing-house where, among the coal-dross, 
she was in the habit of concealing her whisky bottle. 
McAskill, the lawyer, was on the watch for her. He had 
given Lonend’s money to six of the poor of Brieston for the 
last two years, that they might pay the Poor Rates. They 
had received no receipt from Gillespie. In order to have 
absolute proof of Gillespie’s guilt it was necessary to see 
his books ; and there was no other way than by bribing 
his wife. 

Eoghan, who had come out to the stair-head, heard a 
man’s querulous voice at the end of the passage. It froze 
his blood. He could not distinguish what was being said, 
and began to tremble violently. At last ! what devilish 
infamy and shame ! Did these hounds not know that his 
poor mother was insane ? Wide-eyed, open-mouthed with 
horror, he clung to the railing. His faintness had left 


GILLESPIE 


573 


him ; a river of fire was in his veins ; and he saw in the 
air streaks like blood. A great stone seemed to hang 
suspended aloft, ready to drop and crash through the 
monstrous silence. He thought he distinguished his 
mother’s voice — a voice full of unutterable weariness, the 
voice of one mercilessly beaten upon her knees — and he 
began to gnaw on his lower lip, seeing the twin doors of 
hell flung wide open, and the sheeted dead arising out of 
their graves beneath the church on the hill. 

He began to creep down the stairs. 

“ Listen — what that’s ? ” He heard the sibilant words 
distinctly ; it was the voice of the serpent lawyer. Eoghan 
drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs, and, dropping on 
all fours, started crawling along the passage. 

“ You’ll get the money on Monday — a pound.” The 
words came of a seething pit, and set his brain on fire 
as with hot pincers. A wild laugh broke the silence — 
his mother’s terrible laugh. 

“ Shut up, can’t you ? or I’ll be off. I’m here long 
enough already.” 

A fiend seemed to pin Eoghan to the causey for a 
moment; the next he rose up like one in a dream, and 
the great stone suspended in the heavens crashed down. 
It was his own yell. “ Eoghan’s here, mother ! Eoghan’s 
here ! ” and his hot breath was in the lawyer’s face. 
“ Oh, hell ! hell ! hell ! and all its devils.” He had 
blindly gripped the lawyer by the hair, and was sinking 
his teeth in the lobe of an ear, chewing and gnawing upon 
it in blind rage, as he felt for the lawyer’s throat. 

“Good God! you’re murdering me; let me go!” 
McAskill screamed, as he twisted and writhed. Maddened 
with pain, he jerked up his head, tore his ear from Eoghan’s 
grip, dashed his two hands in Eoghan’s face, and broke 
away down the passage. The mind of the lawyer was 
actively at work as he ran— this madman would pursue 


574 


GILLESPIE 


them through the Square ; and the Square on Hogmanay 
night is ablaze with light and choked with wives out in 
their gee-gaws. What a sorry spectacle he would present, 
flying across the Square, hunted by a comet of wrath ! 

The passage continued along the whole length of the 
buildings to the back door of the shop. At the foot of the 
stair leading to the kitchen, the close ran off the passage 
at right angles. The lawyer darted into the close, brought 
himself up smartly, and crouched against the wall. The 
next moment a dark figure, growling in a manner which 
made the lawyer’s blood run cold, tore past him down the 
close. The lawyer slipped round the corner to the right, 
scurried down the passage and, without ceremony, turned 
the handle of the door and stepped into the back shop. 
It was empty. He walked to the door leading to the shop, 
and saw Gillespie handing over the counter to Topsail 
Janet a large basket, giving her at the same time in- 
structions which the lawyer could not catch. He heard 
Topsail cackling, “Ye micht gie me a poke o’ sweeties 
for my Hogmanay.” 

Gillespie was reaching forth his hand to a box of cheap 
confectionery when he saw the lawyer beckoning him 
from the entrance to the back shop. Dismissing Topsail 
Janet with a suggestive jerk of his head, he walked 
swiftly round the counter to the lawyer. 

“ Hoo did ye win in here, laawer ? ” he asked tartly. 

“ A drunken fool at Brodie’s knocked my cap into the 
mud. I take six seven-eighths.” 

Gillespie smoothed out his face. 

“ Light or dark ? ” 

“ Dark.” 

While Gillespie was fetching some caps the lawyer 
determined on his line of action. He concluded that 
Eoghan had overheard the conversation which he had 
had with Mrs. Strang, and that the son would doubtless 


GILLESPIE 


575 


inform the father. All Brieston knew from Gillespie’s 
own mouth that the son had given up the idea of the 
University to enter his father’s business. It would be 
as well for the lawyer to be beforehand with his own story. 
When Gillespie returned with an armful of caps McAskill, 
having retreated to the back shop, asked : 

“ Have ye half-an-hour to spare, Mr. Strang ? Ye might 
close the door.” McAskill licked his lips with his tongue. 

Gillespie, pushing the door to, interrogated the lawyer 
with a look. 

“ I’m thrang the nicht ; is it pressin’ ? ” 

McAskill nodded. “ I’ll mention no names, you know ; 
but there’s one or two folk not exactly your friends in the 
town.” 

“ That’s news.” 

“ And to make a long story short they suspect you’re 
not keeping your books right.” 

“ Whatna books ? ” 

“ As Poor Law Clerk.” 

The single ferrety eye of the lawyer saw Gillespie’s brow 
cloud and his eyes widen with apprehension. It did not 
need the sharp whistle in Gillespie’s nostrils to confirm 
the lawyer. “ By the Lord,” he almost breathed the 
words aloud, “ it’s true.” But when Gillespie scanned 
the lawyer’s face, the eye of the lawyer was bent upon 
the floor. Burly, almost genial, the healthy tan now 
restored to his face, his chin tilted up in a characteristic 
way, Gillespie appeared as if he were the accuser, and the 
weak-kneed, thin-shanked, furtive McAskill the accused. 
“ If he’s innocent he’ll order me out of the shop,” McAskill 
was thinking at that moment when Gillespie said : 

“ The books are passed every year.” 

“ We all know that, Mr. Strang.” 

“ What are they sookin’ at then ? ” 

“ Well,” answered McAskill, “ the moneys you enter 


576 


GILLESPIE 


in the books are passed ; but they suspect these are not 
all the moneys ” — a watery smile played round the thin, 
cruel lips — “and that’s what I’ve come to see you 
about.” 

“ Sit doon, laawer ; sit doon.” Gillespie re-entered 
the shop. He was gone some time, having searched for 
the Fox to take charge of the counter. When he returned 
he seated himself at his desk, and picking up a pen, 
nodded across at McAskill. 

“ Noo, oot wi’t.” His tone was that of a judge. 

McAskill shuffled about on his chair, and began : 
“ One or two gentlemen called at my office and asked me 
if I would like to get your job — collecting the rates, 
Registrar, and all that.” The lawyer waved his hand. “ I 
thought you had resigned, and said I would be delighted.” 

As Gillespie made no answer, the lawyer went on : 
“You see, there’s so many of the poor have got off paying 
their rates that it’s difficult to know who pays. The word 
of Mr. Strang has simply to be taken that so-and-so is 
relieved of his rates, while, in point of fact, so-and-so has 
paid. This is their argument, you understand.” 

“ Ay ! man.” 

“ So, for the last year and this year they have given the 
amount of their rates to half-a-dozen men who have never 
paid taxes in their lives — none of your friends either, I’ll 
warrant you — and put them up to the job of paying their 
rates.” 

“ Imphm ! ” The ejaculation was ground out of the 
listener. “ And they are of opinion, not to mention any 
names, that you haven’t credited these sums with the 
names in your official accounts and statements.” Mc- 
Askill came to a breathless halt, like a diver risen from 
a deep plunge. 

“ I’m folio — in’ — ye.” 

These words had the effect on McAskill of a physical 


GILLESPIE 


577 


blow, and he cringed. “ So they bribed me with the 
offer of your job to get a hold of your books.” 

“ Ye’ve come for them, nae doot ? ” 

“ I was to get them another way.” 

“ Steal them lik’ ? ” 

The lawyer deprecated with a thin smile. “ Oh, no ; 
for a little consideration, honorarium.” He coughed in his 
hand. “ Your wife was to hand them over.” 

Gillespie slowly rose to his feet, and the lawyer blinking, 
imitated, as if dragged up. 

“ I’m no’ a violent man by ordinar, laawer; but ca’ 
canny. Ye’ll no’ be the first furrit o’ Lonen’s that was 
trampit on.” 

Gillespie ponderously resumed his seat, and McAskill 
slunk on to his chair. 

“ But I’ve come here to tell you, Mr. Strang,” he 
whined; “ surely that’s proof of my good intentions and 
honesty.” 

“ Ay ! man, your honesty’s a thing that canna be 
proved ; it’s too often rowed up in a dirty cloot. What 
gars ye bring it oot noo ? ” 

McAskill, ruffled, drew a hand over his smooth mouth. 

“ Oh ! that they’ll not get your books, now that I’ve 
warned you.” 

“ I’m dootin’ no’.” Gillespie laughed sardonically. 

“ Do you not think, Mr. Strang, it would be just as 
well to credit the rates to those who have paid them ? ” 

This sudden spurt of malice did not appear at all 
sinister to Gillespie. “ That’s my business, laawer.” 

“You see you didn’t happen to give them receipts — 
Oh! a slight neglect, I’m sure. No doubt you can produce 
their names and the amounts paid last year if called for 
by a chartered accountant.” 

There was a profound silence. Gillespie put the pen 
behind his ear, and gazed meditatively on the floor. 

pp 


578 


GILLESPIE 


“ What coorse are ye on, laawer ? ” 

An evil smile flickered about the thin, sucking lips. 
“ I know the names of the men and the amounts paid. 
Quite easy to let each man have his receipt, and credit the 
amount in your statement of moneys received. There are 
only six names in dispute. For any others ” — McAskill 
shot a keen glance at Gillespie — “ it doesn’t matter.” 

“ It’s no’ for noathin’ they say you’re a smert ane, 
Mr. McAskill.” Gillespie had become amazingly suave 
and affected cordiality. “You an’ me ’ill hae to mak’ a 
bargain.” 

“ That’s exactly what I’ve come for. Had I stayed away 
you’d have been ruined.” 

Gillespie was stung in the seat of his pride by these 
words. Many things of late had tried his temper — 
Maclean’s interference in the matter of his wife ; Barbara’s 
money; above all, the mysterious attitude of his son. 

“ Burned ! Gillespie Strang ruined by a sook o’ a 
laawer, an’ a’ wheen kiss-ma-futs. Ye’ve come to the 
wrang shop.” 

Again Gillespie rose to his feet, but this time McAskill 
remained seated. “ There’s no need to get angry,” he 
said softly. 

“ Ondootedly ; it’s no’ my practice ; but keep a ceevil 
tongue in your heid.” Gillespie again sat down. 

“ It’ll be so much a name.” McAskill leered horribly. 

“ I winna gie a pun’ note for the hale jing-bang o’ the 
scum.” 

“ The names will be worth more than that to the 
Parish Council.” 

“ An’ hoo muckle dae ye mak’ oot they’re worth to 
Mr. McAskill ? ” 

Gillespie sneered broadly in the lawyer’s face. 

“ Shall we say five pound a head ? ” 

“Ye mean a five pun’ note for a’ the tinklers.” 


GILLESPIE 


579 


McAskill laughed mirthlessly. 

“ Ye’re he’rty on it, laawer; what preceesly is the bit 
joke ? ” 

“ Oh ! I thought for the moment we were buying 
and selling slaves. I imagined myself on the coast of 
Zanzibar.” 

“ I’m jaloosin ” — Gillespie frowned — “ that it would be 
female slaves the likes o’ you wad be bargainin’ for.” 

McAskill flushed and drummed with his taper fingers 
on the chair. “ Let us come to business,” he rapped out. 

“ I’m willin’. It’s yersel’ stairted in amang the 
slaves.” 

McAskill pondered. He was a vindictive man. Re- 
venge for this insult, and for many wrongs which he had 
suffered smilingly at the hands of Gillespie, would be 
sweet. He would get paid for those names ; but at the 
same time would not by any means throw away Gillespie’s 
job, which he now held in his hands. Gillespie, self- 
confessedly, had cooked his accounts. McAskill hoped 
the defalcation was large. 

“ Well, how much do you propose to pay for each 
man ? ” he asked. 

“ Hoo dae I ken the thing’s no’ a story o’ your ain 
mak’-up ? ” 

“ It’s a story I can make gospel pretty quick if I take 
to preaching in the sheriff court at Ardmarkie.” 

“ Weel ! weel ! ye said five pun’ a heid; that’s ower 
muckle for swine.” 

“ I’m willing to say four.” 

“ No, no, laawer ; we’ll split the differ an’ say three.” 

McAskill knew from experience that he had reached 
the limit. Besides it was near ten o’clock, and he had 
business with Brodie. He assented. 

“ Hand me ower the names noo.” Gillespie’s face was 
nonchalant, his tone careless. 


580 


GILLESPIE 


“ I am forced to admit that I admire your acting, Mr. 
Strang. You would be an ornament to any profession 
but the Church.” 

These words made Gillespie afraid more than anything 
McAskill had said. The lawyer had never before dared 
be so personal. This sleek rogue had always been a 
poltroon, a toady, and a constant dog at heel. Where he 
glided, Gillespie knew, his shadow was disastrous. To 
have him show his teeth now was ominous. Gillespie 
had often seen him at his backstairs tricks, and knew what 
a scoundrel he was. There was more in his flagrant 
insolence than merely an attempt at bleeding a victim. 
The penumbra of eclipse touched Gillespie cold. Through 
the instrumentality of this fellow Gillespie had once 
“ downed ” Lonend. Was the unsleeping hand of Lonend 
behind McAskill’ s effrontery ? If this matter of the Poor 
Rates were pushed home he would be in a fix. He had 
not forgotten the Procurator-Fiscal. He was a fool to have 
riled that man. It was doubtful what Eoghan would do 
with the estate if the Procurator-Fiscal got his claws on 
him. Had this angel of evil, McAskill, only postponed 
his visit for a year, for six months even, till Eoghan had 
worked himself into the business, and it had become safe 
in his hands. What a cursed miscarriage ! His own 
flesh and blood was in league against him. For a moment 
Gillespie’s face was distorted with passion; but with a 
superb effort he recovered his calm — he must follow warily 
the lawyer’s lead. Though his mind was in a fever the 
only sign of uneasiness which he betrayed was a puckering 
of his brows, as he looked up swiftly at the rat eye which 
was watching him with a mocking smile. If he could 
only wrest the secret of this oily hound or win this grinning 
shadow of the law to his side ! To be niggard now was 
to invite defeat and disgrace. Gillespie trembled, not 
for himself, but for his idols. 


GILLESPIE 


581 


“ What dae ye mean, Mr. McAskill ? Surely ye can 
trust a freen’.” 

“ I mean that I’m not Galbraith or Lonend or a simple 
fisherman.” 

“ Then ye dinna trust me, aifter a’ we’ve been through 
thegither ? ” 

“ I don’t believe there is honour among thieves.” 

The words stung Gillespie like nettles. Mercilessly 
they revealed to him his plight. Goaded as he was, he 
felt impotent before this extortioner and liar. By devils 
are devils heartlessly condemned. The pure shudder to 
pronounce woe. Gillespie ground the stump of the pen 
between his strong teeth, and the air whistled sharply in 
his nostrils. 

“ Surely I maun hae the goods afore I pey ye, man.” 
He was unable fully to repress his anger. 

“ I want to see the colour of your money. I will give 
you name number one for three pounds.” 

“ Hoots ! hoots ! dinna be sae hasty. Ye’ll find 
Gillespie Strang’s no’ that slack wi’ a pun’ here or there 
among freen’s. I’ll mak’ it five pun’ if ye dale wi’ me 
fair an’ square ; there, that’s an offer.” 

McAskill leaned forward, with a smile of blandishment, 
in the strong, hard face of his prey. 

“ Double the five, Mr. Strang, and I’ll put ye on the 
track of your enemies.” 

Gillespie, who felt his fetters fall off at these unexpected 
words, opened a long narrow drawer in his desk and took 
out a cheque-book. “ I’ll mak’ oot a cheque for sixty 
poun’ in your favour.” 

There was a tense silence for a moment, and McAskill 
crooked his mouth to restrain a wild desire for laughter. 

“ I’ll give you the six names, Mr. Strang, and the 
amount paid by each for Poor Rates. You can enter 
them into your books. Then let Lonend lay a charge 


582 GILLESPIE 

of defalcation against you, and you can have an action 
against him for libel.” 

This cunning veneer and plausible gracefulness turned 
the tables. A demon of revenge, the reaction from his 
state of desperate fear, seized and blinded Gillespie. 

“ Mak’ oot your list, by Goad ! ” he breathed. Sud- 
denly one of the canaries in the shop burst into song. 

“ A fine whistler, that bird,” said the lawyer, with 
austere politeness. 

Gillespie reared his massive head to listen. The stolen 
bird’s requiem as suddenly stopped. 

“ I never heard the boy so late at e’en before.” He 
turned to McAskill, cheque in hand. “ Ye can sell me 
the slaves noo,” he said jocularly. Through sheer force 
of habit Gillespie had assumed his jocose counter manners. 
McAskill dived into his pocket and took out a longish slip 
of paper. It was Brodie’s account, rendered at the end 
of a quarter for “ goods.” The lawyer was now come to 
the climax of his daring game. So many hundreds of 
people pay the Poor Rate. Could Gillespie particularise 
any six names in which, up till now, he had had no 
interest ? McAskill determined to furnish six names 
other than those in question. If Gillespie accepted them 
he would soon be in jail, and McAskill Clerk to the Poor 
in his shoes. On the first name hung the issue. McAskill 
asked for pen and paper ; then — Angus Cameron, fisher- 
man, the Barracks. He called out the name like an usher 
in court, and waited for a challenge. There was none. 
The lawyer squeezed his knees together in repressed 
exultation. The giant of business was trapped in the 
snare of forgotten details. McAskill thrilled in writing 
down the two words, for he was writing the doom of 
Gillespie at the rate of ten pounds a name. No sound 
broke the stillness now but the scraping of the pen, whose 
shrill music was that of the Dies Irae. The lawyer had a 


GILLESPIE 


583 


neat hand, and was making out the bill of indictment, 
not with a pen, but with a dagger. Gillespie’s eyes 
gloated on the paper, which was the winding-sheet of his 
honour. Scratch ! scratch ! scratch ! The profound 
silence was suddenly broken by the sound of a dull thud 
overhead. 

“ What’s that ? ” asked the lawyer, without looking up. 
His eager hand was at the fourth name. 

“ Oh ! it’ll be the missis lookin’ for the books.” 
Gillespie’s tame sneer was lost on McAskill, who wrote 
the fifth name ; and the Christian name of the sixth 
was completed when a louder thud shook the ceiling. 
McAskill peered up at Gillespie, his pen hovering in mid- 
air. They heard a faint moan. 

“ Something wrong up there ” — the end of the pen was 
jerked towards the ceiling. 

“ Oh ! I expect the missis is bringin’ in Ne’er Hay.” 

The pen swooped on the paper and finished the writing 
of the name. Had McAskill only known it, his duplicity 
was in vain. In that sound overhead nemesis had 
already done for him all that his treacherous soul had 
sought. The woman, whom an hour ago he had attempted 
to bribe, and who had answered him strangely by asking 
what he had done with the dead baby, lay above prone 
upon the floor, and her body, dethroning the house of 
Strang, became the stepping-stone for the lawyer to his 
official seat among the revenues. With the Judas money 
which he had wrung from Gillespie he paid his bill at 
Brodie’s, and jovially ordered a fresh supply of whisky 
for the New Year. 

As for Gillespie Strang, he went and talked of important 
matters concerning Lonend to his canaries. As he talked 
he made a sudden hissing sound in his nostrils. He had 
omitted to charge McAskill two shillings for the dark cap. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Baffled, and with the aspect of a beaten hound, Eoghan 
returned from the darkened and locked office of the lawyer, 
and took refuge in the mouth of the close from the driving 
rain, as he sought to recover his thoughts. A gale was 
screaming with high-pitched note through the Square. 
The shop lights drizzled against the dreariness of the wet 
night ; the wind whistled as upon the edge of knives in the 
rigging of the fishing-fleet; the greedy tide lapped over 
the breast wall ; the slates rattled like musketry. A night 
in the dying year for wrecks. 

“ My sorrow is upon you, little town,” he groaned, as 
his eye swept the deserted, sea-beleaguered street. He 
scarce could climb the stair, because of a fierce pain low 
down in his left side. Greenish sparks of light whirled 
before his eyes in orgiacal gambol, like a cloud of wasps. 
He had been in the vertigo of hell, out of which he floated 
into a lake of eternal darkness. Rage had given place 
to inexpressible weariness, and weariness to terror of 
the mysterious forces which surround human life. When 
he reached the head of the stair he heard a cough — hard 
and hollow, and an icy hand gripped at his heart at the 
sound. The convulsive swelling in his breast recom- 
menced, and a sense of imminent danger, murky as the 
night, seized his mind. That little cough, blatant and 
callous, challenged and defied him. It made a blood- 
freezing sound. Faint with dread, he leaned heavily upon 
the stair railing to ease the tumult of his heart, as he 
sought for some light in his darkness. This child of 

584 


GILLESPIE 


585 


dreams and the plaything of circumstance was learning 
to gnaw upon vicissitude and withstand the arrows of 
Fate. Had he turned then and gone to the “ Ghost,’’ as 
he had almost determined, the course of this history would 
have been changed, and Eoghan Strang would probably 
have emerged from the conflict with his soul welded in 
its fires, as into a sword sharper than Fate, and able to 
withstand Destiny; but in that moment he heard a 
tremulous wire-drawn voice begin to sing : 

“ Last night there were four Maries, 

To-night there’ll be but three.** 

Back beyond this night of wrath and fear, the words bore 
him to the havens of childhood across the miles of angels, 
and he saw his dear mother, young and beautiful, as once 
he had beheld her at the shop door, wearing a linen collar, 
and the black coil of her hair stately upon her head, and 
her smile ineffable and half wistful upon the fishermen 
who passed, doffing their caps. The tears smarted in his 
eyes. One effort, yes, by God ! one effort, and he would 
save her yet ; he would tear her away from this place of 
infamy and shame. 

She was seated at the fire, nursing a whisky bottle in 
her lap as it were a babe. Her clothing was drenched with 
rain ; her face was ghastly with the cold. She fixed her 
eyes upon him as upon a stranger, and with stealthy 
cunning whipped the bottle out of sight under a cloud of 
babble, her mouth and knees violently twitching and 
jerking. She looked as if she had been cruelly beaten. 
Her eyes were glazed and exhausted, and were fixed on 
her son with wide, horrible calm. She recognised him 
now — this dogged spy. 

“ Give me a drink of water,” she said, with a wrinkled 
leer, and in a wheedling tone. Immediately he had 
turned to the dresser for a cup her face assumed an 


586 


GILLESPIE 


intensely virile appearance. She jumped to her feet, and 
casting the look of a warder upon him, broke into a little 
blind trot to her room, where she went down on all fours 
and searched beneath the bed for the instrument of 
liberty which she had concealed there, Gillespie’s razor, 
and which she whipped into her skirt pocket. It made 
a dull sound against the bottle. She returned to the 
kitchen, refused the water with a sulky look, and sat 
down at the fire. Without the storm tore across the 
Harbour, and every snarl drove the smoke from the 
chimney in clouds into the kitchen. After a fit of cough- 
ing she watched, from the corners of her eyes, the move- 
ments of her son, who took off his wet jacket and soaked 
collar. She conceived him watching for an opportunity 
to rob her of the concealed treasure in her pocket, which 
she had brought up from the washing-house. He was a 
spy of Gillespie’s. Why were they constantly watching 
her, as if she were a thief or a dog 1 They would not allow 
Mr. Campion to come and see the dead baby in the bed. 

“ What were you doing in the bedroom, mother ? ” 

He knew, then, of the dead baby there, and would 
steal that away too. An intense hatred of him possessed 
her, and she gnashed with her teeth. He stepped to the 
table against the wall next to the bedroom and turned 
down the wick of the lamp, which was blackening the 
funnel. He moved mechanically, for his mind was in a 
whirl. He wished to tell her of the strange dream, in 
which he saw her lying among flowers in a coffin — a 
dream that might come true very soon if she did not give 
over this drinking. What a cough she had ! Yet if he 
told her it might leave her panic-stricken with fear. His 
heart bled for her. He wished Topsail were here to put 
her to bed. She would catch her death of cold in those 
soaked clothes. Or would he demand outright an ex- 
planation of her business with the lawyer ? His emotions 


GILLESPIE 


587 


deprived him of the power of clear thought; he moved 
like an automaton ; his hand shook violently as he turned 
the screw of the lamp. The gale shook the house with 
a sudden clap, and a torrent of smoke rushed from the 
fire. The light of the lamp went down too far, and the 
kitchen was buried in semi-gloom. 

The rage to drink was burning her. She looked upon 
him from her eyelids. Would he seize the bottle ? They 
all robbed her. She must drink, for her head was mad 
with pain, her mouth was parched, her lips were on fire. 
He adjusted the flame of the lamp, and turning, saw her 
greedily drink. 

“ Oh ! mother, mother, it’s drawing to the end o’ the 
Year ; will ye no’ try in the New Year to give it up ? 
You’ll try, mother; we’ll go away from here together.” 
The anguished pleading choked him. 

“ Ay ! ay ! the weary end o’ the clock. My baby’s 
dead an’ ta’en awa’. Did ye hear the cocks o’ the Muir- 
heid era win’ ? ” 

The horrible hopelessness of her life seized him. He 
seemed hardly to breathe. 

“ Do you believe in the judgment of God, in hell ? ” 
he asked. 

Another would have been moved by those words, 
coming from his corpse-like lips ; but she, seizing on the 
word 4 4 hell,” whispered in a sane moment the stupendous 
secret of her shipwreck. 

44 Gillespie Strang is hell.” These were the last words 
she ever spoke. They revealed to him all the agony of 
her life, rising up in a flame of atrocious suffering — a 
life of loneliness and slavery, of neglect and extreme 
misery, overshadowed by terror, sullen hatred, and fear. 
Her colourless, down-trodden life rose up before his eyes, 
sublime in its resignation to tyranny and cruelty. Her 
soul had been battered to death. Had he himself done 


588 


GILLESPIE 


his duty ? He drove his nails into his palms. The 
happy hours and days spent with Barbara rose up as 
damning witnesses before this self-set tribunal, and he 
bitterly denounced himself : “We have all been reposing 
on hope — I on Barbara’s love, my father on gold — while 
she, miserable, has drifted in the dark. ’ ’ He gazed mourn- 
fully upon the profile of his mother, upon her figure, sunk 
and steeped in immobility, a statue of tragic despair. 
Devouring her appalling stillness with eyes anguished 
with remorse, he made a movement of his arms as if to 
clasp her in a shielding embrace. The gesture expressed 
the poignant depths of his suffering. Stooping, he sank 
on his knees and began crawling towards the draggled 
hem of her skirt, and spread out his arms in supplication, 
as if he were nailed upon a cross. 

Her hard, glittering eye was riveted unwaveringly 
upon him — this hound, who had scented out her secret 
and in a moment would snatch the bottle from her and 
discover the razor. Her eyes darted round the room in 
a quick, stealthy glance. They were alone. She had 
brooded upon this chance for weeks. Now she would be 
rid for ever of this loathed adversary, who meant to cast 
her into the Harbour. Her left hand lay open, palm 
upwards, on her lap. With the right she made a restless 
jerky movement. Her eyes, cunningly upon him, were 
blazing with the immensity of her savage hatred, and the 
devouring lust to see this dogged spy struck down. He 
rose upon his knees at her feet to beseech the living God 
to give him absolution for his neglect, and break the 
blight of his mother’s face with His light. 

“ Oh, Jesus Christ, lead her sorrow and her woe into 
my breast,” he cried. The chimney suddenly belched 
smoke. Her gloomy face lightened with a fierce ex- 
pression of joy, and with incredible swiftness she half 
arose, seized him by the hair, jerked his head back savagely, 


GILLESPIE 


589 


and drew the glittering blade of the razor across his throat. 
A tiny artery spurted upon her hand. The hot blood 
drove her crazy. She tightened her knees upon him as 
with a vice, and deepened her clutch in his hair. Pro- 
found astonishment paralysed him. His head was 
viciously wrung back again, and in a horrible silence 
she, with the savage strength of a demoniac, 
slashed his throat open through the muscles, till the 
razor scraped on the surface of the bones of the 
neck. A huge gout of arterial blood spouted on her 
face, blinding her, and pumped far across the room, 
splashing on the wall. He glimpsed the stained blade 
in her hand as, with a superhuman effort, he heaved himself 
up. The chair toppled ; she crashed backwards ; the thud 
of her head on the back of the fender mingled with the 
brittle sound of the broken whisky bottle. She rolled 
over on her side, her face smeared with his blood, and in 
her right hand the dripping razor. Neither had spoken 
a word. 

Astonishment, incredulity, anger swept rapidly over 
him, and gave way to deep-seated fear, to horror un- 
speakable. A dark steady stream poured and poured 
down his neck and shirt. This is death, he thought ; my 
life is pouring out of me. His body burned and became 
cold. He clapped his hands to his throat and staggered 
up on his feet. From the cut windpipe a mound of bloody 
froth hissed and crackled. He strove to cry out for help. 
There were bands of light appearing and disappearing 
before his eyes. He swayed upon his feet, fainting into 
an enormous region of darkness ; crashed down on the 
floor and lay like dead in a pool of blood. He was aware 
of a vast terrible silence, whichisolated him fromhumanity. 
Panic-stricken, he got up again and lurched to the sink, 
turned on the tap, and attempted to wash his neck. Again 
he fell on the floor in a pool of red and dark blood . . . 


590 


GILLESPIE 


Nailed on the sky above were the heads of malefactors, 
whose blood fell on the earth like rain. It ran on his 
face and throat ; God Almighty, it was his own blood. . . . 
Again he got to his feet, stumbled to the kitchen door, his 
face like dough, reeled through the passage into his own 
room, where again he crashed on the floor, face downwards, 
and lay still in a sea of blood, his pupils wide and staring 
into a damnable abyss of horror. 


CHAPTER XVII 


“Wee Setterday,” the last day of the year, was drawing 
to an end. The lights went out one by one in the shops 
of Harbour Street, and the wind-besieged night took 
possession of Brieston. Gillespie Strang blew out the 
lights and locked up his shop. He was revolving the 
business which the lawyer had disclosed, and cherished 
the hope that his son would begin the New Year by enter- 
ing into partnership with him. For a moment he stopped 
at the front door after he had locked it, and listened to 
the howling of the gale, which blew from the nor’ -west 
with blinding sheets of rain. He was alone in the Square. 
“ The auld year’s being blawn away like hey-my-nanny,” 
he muttered ; “ the new ane ’ill be no sae pleesant for some 
folk.” He was thinking of Lonend. 

Gillespie was tired, and shambled round the corner of 
the house, his head bowed to the storm — tall, broad, 
ponderous, alone. He was buffeted in the draughty close, 
and clung to the iron hand-rail of the stair. Fatigue had 
subdued him. The kitchen door stood wide open in the 
passage; the lamp had gone out; a single red spark 
glimmered in the ashes of the fire. An oppressive quiet 
reigned within the house. 

“ Janet ! ” he called sharply up the narrow stair to the 
Coffin. Topsail was at West Loch Brieston, persuaded 
by the storm and Angus Carmichael, to whom she had 
carried certain goods, “ to stay and bring in New Year.” 

“ Janet, are ye deif ? ” 

Nothing but silence and darkness on the stair leading 
591 


592 


GILLESPIE 


to the Coffin, and the moan of the storm. “ A cauld lik’ 
New Year,” he sneered, and pushed into the kitchen. 
The shop keys jangled in his hand — the instruments with 
which he had locked life out of his existence. He put 
them in his jacket pocket. 

“ Are ye there, Morag ? ” He cast his voice in the 
direction of the bedroom. The house shook under the 
impact of the gale, and a gust went whining through the 
Square into MacCalman’s Lane. 

“ Bonny lik’ nicht to be oot stravaigin’. She’ll be 
bringin’ in Ne’er Day wi’ her freens.” 

He began to sniff like a terrier on the scent, casting 
his head round to every point of the compass. He was 
puzzled. Along with the pungent odour of whisky 
mingled another smell which baffled him. It was the 
acrid smell of his son’s blood. 

“ Just so,” he muttered wearily; “ she’s forgotten her 
waen; she’ll hae plenty whaur she is.” A grim smile 
hardened round his lips as he remembered Maclean’s words 
that the spring flowers would be growing over her. Then 
he would be rid of the burden. She might, any of those 
dark nights, wander over the Harbour wall — perhaps to- 
night in the darkness. Yet those thoughts made him 
gloomy, and he searched for matches in his waistcoat 
pocket. Outside on the slates of the washing-house the 
startled wail of a wandered cat rose up on the wind ; the 
lonely cry of pain seemed to wrestle with the storm. As 
the second meowh quavered piteously like an infant 
greeting, he felt there was an unaccustomed silence in the 
house. Where were they all ? Eoghan would be at the 
“ Ghost.” Why was Topsail not returned ? He passed 
heavily into the bedroom, sat down on the edge of the 
bed, and began unlacing his boots. 

“ Oot stravaigin’ to a’ oors.” He spoke bitterly. “ I 
micht as well be a weedaoor. Weel, weel, it’s a kin’ o’ 


GILLESPIE 


593 


caul hame-comin’ at Ne’er Day for Gillespie Strang.” He 
meant that such an one, with all his wealth, ought to be 
able to buy or achieve some welcome or happiness. He 
was proud of his loneliness. One by one the boots fell 
on the floor with a loud thud. He groped on the dressing- 
table for matches and put his hand to a drawer. It was 
already open — the drawer in which he kept his razor. 
It contained no matches. He thought of the kitchen 
mantelpiece and retreated thither. His right foot came 
down heavily on a splinter of broken bottle and was deeply 
pierced. It was the whisky bottle which his wife had 
brought forth from concealment in the rubbish heap of 
the washing-house. Gillespie Strang, with an exclama- 
tion of annoyance, hopped back, lifted up his leg, and 
making a wry face pressed his hand to the sole of his foot. 
Hop back as fast as he could, he did not hop back 
quickly enough. Gillespie had touched death in the 
dark. 

He was forced at last to seek for matches in the shop, 
in the pigeon-hole of his desk, where he always kept a box 
since the night of the attempted robbery. He also brought 
back with him a candle. When he entered the kitchen he 
struck a match. The yellow light flared and went out; 
and he fumbled for another. Drip ! drip ! drip ! the 
water from the tap fell with clammy insistence in the 
sink. Without the cat still wailed, as if crying for mercy 
from the inclement night. The fretting noise broke 
irritatingly upon his consciousness. 

“ Deil tak’ the beast, greetin’ awa’ there lik’ a waen.” 

He sheltered the feeble flare of the match in the hollow 
of his hand and lit the candle. He turned at once to the 
dresser, for the sole of his foot was smarting. “ Whaur 
will I get a bit cloot ? ” he said mechanically, and opened 
one drawer after another. He found a piece of bath- 
brick ; soiled pieces of rag ; an empty cocoa-tin ; a photo- 
QQ 


594 


GILLESPIE 


graph. He held up the photograph to the candle-light. 
It was that of Eoghan, concealed there by Topsail Janet. 
Gazing at it with ardent face, Gillespie forgot his wounded 
foot, and turning with a deep sigh, the candle in one hand 
and the photograph in the other, he saw his wife. She was 
lying at the far end of the fender on her side, face down- 
wards. In the badly-lit room he did not notice the blood- 
splashed wall or the dark-red pools at the sink. Shadows 
danced on the ceiling and half across the wall — danced 
elvishly, mockingly. Drunk, of course, and her bed 
anywhere. 

“ So ye’re hame, auld fugle wife; in blanket bay wi’ 
a’ your regimentals on.” Getting no answer, he added 
sarcastically, “ Brocht in Ne’er Day in guid time.” 
The wild wind shook the window. The gable was in 
its teeth, and Gillespie stood a moment listening to the 
booming sound as of guns in the chimney. On such 
a night was Iain drowned. As he listened the clock in 
the church spire began to strike twelve. The sounds 
came now faint, now clear and strong, as if they were 
being worried by the wind. The grey warden of the years 
upon the hill had given notice. At the third stroke 
remembrance came to him. 

“ Guid New Year to ye, Mrs. Strang,” he cried mock- 
ingly, “ an’ guid New Year to Lonen’, your faither;” 
and putting down the candle and the photograph of his 
son on the table beside the dead lamp, and taking out 
a large silver watch, he began to wind it. A deep gust 
shook the house. 

“ It’s loud enough to wauken the deid.” He glanced 
at his wife, expecting to see the dark head stir. “ Hae ! 
rise up, auld wife, an’ shake your feathers, it’s Ne’er 
Day; ” and in that moment, with a sudden rush, as if 
a supernatural wind had blown in upon his spirit, he 
felt that death was there, nursing his wife at the blind 


GILLESPIE 


595 


fire -end. He was across the floor in two strides, leaving 
a small pool of blood on the floor where he had been 
standing. He slithered over a dark-red pool, and then 
saw the blood on her cheek. 

He staggered back with terror in his eyes, crept to 
one side to bring her face into full view, saw her glassy 
eyes and the rigid, yawning mouth — which seemed to 
have taken in a breath and never expelled it again — 
and the blood. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. 

“ My first fut, my first fut,” he cackled; “ this . . .” 

Beneath the thunder of the wind there was an uncanny 
silence in the kitchen. The missile rain, crashing upon 
the panes, roused him out of his stupor. With a back- 
ward glance he lurched out of the room, slipping on the 
blood, and put out his hands at Eoghan’s door. 

“ Waken, waken, Eoghan ! the kitchen’s like a 
slachter-hoose ; your mother’s cut her throat.” 

He heard nothing but the beating of his own heart 
as he waited for an answer. 

“ Waken, Eoghan, waken. Do ye hear me ? ” 

The bedroom, which was towards the front, was filled 
with the dark plowter of the sea and its half-strangled 
cry. He groped forward, catching the iron end of the 
bedstead, and put his hands into the bed to shake the 
j sleeping body. They fell on empty space. A clear water 
dribbled from the corners of his mouth, and he uttered 
a deep groan. 

“ Good Goad, the hoose is empty ! ” 

He backed away, a prey to fear, shot a look of terror 
in through the kitchen door, and half ran through the 
passage to the stair. In his shirt sleeves and stocking- 
soles he bolted into a night hoarse with the sea and 
maddened with the wind, and casting one fearful glance 
over his shoulder at the dark pile of his dwelling looming 
down upon him, ran across the Square to Maclean’s 


596 


GILLESPIE 


house, whose night-bell he sent jangling all through the 
house. A window was thrust up ; in the rush of the wind 
Gillespie could not distinguish what was said. Presently 
a bolt was drawn, a key rasped, the big door opened, 
and the maid invited Gillespie into the hall. The red 
night-light on the oaken table, the unconcerned face of 
the maid, the homely sounds of the doctor moving above, 
restored his courage to Gillespie. With the access of 
calm, his fears gave place to a more pleasing outlook. 
Affairs were moving beneath the stars in his favour; 
Lonend would soon be in the hollow of his hand in a 
court of justice; his wife would trouble him no more. 
His star was steadily rising upon the evening of his life. 
Maclean’s descent broke in upon his rumination. Under 
the doctor’s keen scrutiny, Gillespie recognised that he 
was in his shirt sleeves and stocking-soles. 

“ You, Mr. Strang ; what is wrong I ” 

“ Come away quick, doctor ; the missis’s stravaigin’ 
days are done.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ She’s lyin’ yonder on the flure a caul’ corp, up to the 
bridles in blood.” 

Maclean darted past him, and when Gillespie stepped 
to the door he heard the doctor running across the 
Square. When next he saw Maclean, the doctor was 
stooping over the dead body of his wife. 

“ Hold the candle here, sir,” was the peremptory 
demand. 

Gillespie, candle in hand, went prying and sniffing 
about the cold clay, his face impassive. To have grown 
grey in greed and iniquity was nothing in its monstrosity 
in comparison to this silent jubilee. The horror of 
death appeared to leave him invincible. Chafing at 
Maclean’s long investigation, he stooped forward, pointing 
at the corpse, and was about to speak when Maclean 


GILLESPIE 


597 


seized his hand, and rising abruptly to his feet, gazed 
sternly into Gillespie’s face. 

“ There has been murder here.” 

Gillespie threw up his left hand as if to evade a blow. 
It carried the candle upwards till it singed his eyebrows. 
In the silence was heard the sound of the singeing, whose 
acrid odour permeated the room. Maclean was keenly 
watching him. 

44 Murder ! ” Gillespie gasped, paling to the lips, the 
full significance of the terrible word slowly breaking 
in upon him. Since the Night of the Big Burning he had 
assiduously built up on the ashes of his fleet the goodwill 
of the people. He expected to be made a Justice of the 
Peace, and consolidate his power and wealth. This talk 
about murder would land him on his beam-ends. It was 
an ugly thing to have in one’s house. In her lifetime 
he had seldom been angry with his wife. Insolence, 
contempt, scorn, neglect, had been his weapons. Bage 
against the impotent clay that was threatening his edifice 
now possessed him, and he ground his teeth. 

“I’ve aye had to thole for her, an’ noo to the bitter 
end,” he blurted out. “ It was aye me, an’ noo she’s by 
wi’t, it’ll be 4 Gillespa’, the brute,’ an’ 4 1 telt ye it wad 
come to this. Is Gillespa’ no’ the rag, the scum, the 
vaigabond ? ’ ” The muscles of his neck swelled, his 
face became purple; wrath made him terrible to look 
at, vindictive and lowering over the dead body of his 
wife. 

Maclean rapped out a sharp question. 

44 Where is Topsail ? ” 

44 Goad kens ; I sent her to the West Loch wi’ a pickle 
messages.” 

44 At this time of night ? ” 

44 She gied awa’ at the back o’ nine o’clock,” 

44 Where’s Eoghan ? ” 


598 


GILLESPIE 


The ring of suspicion in Maclean’s voice sent the blood 
to Gillespie’s head in a rush, and his breathing became 
stertorous. 

“Ye dinna mean to say it was me ? ” In spite of a 
superhuman effort at self-control his voice broke. 

Maclean shook his head, and said in a grave voice : 
“ I make no accusation ; it is not to me you will have to 
explain, Mr. Strang.” 

Gillespie trembled. The suspicion of crime would 
stick to him ; he would have to prove innocency of hands. 

“ Whatna judgment’s fa’en on my hoose the nicht ? ” 
he cried, his beady eyes widening dumbly upon the 
doctor in panic. 

Maclean pointed his forefinger at the blood-splashed 
wall. 

“ There is the handwriting of the judgment,” he said. 

The high, pitiless blood seemed to blind Gillespie, 
who looked helplessly from it down to his wife, and back 
again to the wall. 

“ It is not hers,” said Maclean, in a solemn voice. “ Let 
us finish our work.” 

The doctor was convinced. It had not taken him 
many minutes to discover that the blood was not 
Mrs. Strang’s. He had also found in her right hand, 
upon which she lay, the blood-smeared razor. He 
wished to be convinced that Gillespie had not had a 
hand in the business. Having ascertained this, he pitied 
the man. He guessed that Mrs. Strang, in a fit of frenzy, 
had cut some one’s throat ; he thought it must be poor 
Topsail’s, simply because of her absence at this time of 
the morning. He beckoned to Gillespie to follow him 
with the candle ; tracked the blood to the sink, through 
the kitchen door, and across the passage. At that 
moment a step was heard on the outside stair — heavy 
and slow, Maclean halted, listening. 


GILLESPIE 


599 


Who’s there ? ” screamed Gillespie in nervous fear. 

The next moment the outer door was pushed open, 
and the wet, rosy, smiling face of Topsail appeared. 

Good God, you ! ” cried Maclean, in horror. His 
face took a sudden bleached aspect, as he turned and 
looked at Gillespie in profound pity. 

Topsail stood gazing at the two men, and the smile 
slowly faded from her face. She let go the door, which 
swung to, in the fierce draught, with a crash which went 
echoing through the house. Plucking nervously at her 
skirt she chirped : 

“ A happy New Year.” 

Gillespie flung on her a scorching, malignant look. 

“ Hush, woman,” Maclean said sternly; “ stand where 
you are.” He beckoned to Gillespie to bring forward the 
candle. They were on the threshold of Eoghan’s room. 

“ Mr. Strang, I warn you that we may find a terrible 
sight here.” 

The hand that held the candle shook violently, and 
the breath in Gillespie’s nostrils whistled loudly. Maclean 
led the way. Beyond the bed in the midst of the floor 
Eoghan lay, face downwards. Gillespie gripped the end 
of the bedstead, leaned heavily forward, panting, and 
shook like a dog. His figure became rigid, his eyes 
protruded in their stare, and he began to moan like a 
stricken ox. Maclean stooped and turned over the body. 
The face lay in a pool of dark blood. The nose was 
flat with the pressure. A large, gaping wound was in 
the throat, the face was red to the hair on the forehead, 
and the shirt soaked in blood. 

“ Jesus Christ in heaven ! he’s near cut the heid off 
hissel’ ! ” 

Gillespie’s awful cry rang out to the ears of Topsail 
in the passage. She hastened to the door, and the next 
moment a woman’s scream rang out above the noise of 


600 


GILLESPIE 


the gale, and Topsail Janet, covering her eyes with her 
hand, reeled backwards and sank in a heap on the 
threshold. 

The miserable Gillespie hovered a moment about the 
ghastly body, his hands twitching, his face working 
convulsively. Maclean arose, wiped his forehead, and 
gently took the candle from Gillespie. 

Death, the black beagle, had hunted Gillespie to earth. 
The sight of his murdered son tore his dark soul into his 
baited eyes, and in one awful glimpse reduced his life 
to the lees. In that blood Gillespie foundered. In a 
state of swoon, baulked, defeated, broken, he whined 
like a sick child : “ Doctor ! doctor ! tak’ me awa’ oot 
o’ here.” 

Maclean led him from the room, and locked up the 
house. Topsail Janet, walking like the blind and sobbing 
hysterically, followed them like a dog to the doctor’s 
home. Two o’clock of the New Year boomed down on 
dark Brieston as Maclean set off to arouse the policeman. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Gillespie had again encountered the Procurator- 
Fiscal, and wilted under his naked examination. The 
legal formalities were ended, and it was the time of the 
coffining. The countryside was rigid as iron, as white 
as salt. The Butler was in the shop, dressed in the 
famous sealskin waistcoat. For the first time in many 
years he had omitted to have his photograph taken at 
Rothesay. 

“ Hard weather, Gillespie ! ” His tone was cordial and 
open ; a little boisterous to conceal his rugged pity. 

“ Ay ! blae lik’ an’ cauld.” Gillespie was pouring 
seed from a paper bag into the canary’s feed-box. 
Nothing was audible but the hissing of the seed. 

“ This bird o’ mine was stervin’,” he said, not daring 
to raise his eyes. His voice trailed away into a quaver. 
His hand shook so violently that the seed spilled over 
on the floor. The Butler contemplated the spilled seed, 
poked at it with his stick, and spoke in a slow, burring 
voice. 

“ Gillespie, you an’ me didn’t pull; but that’s a’ bye.” 

The seed rained on the floor, rained. Gillespie raised 
his massive head, and nodded, gulping hard. A sense 
of the immensity of his loss came over him again at the 
Butler’s tone of condolence. He stood in a shaft of the 
wintry sunlight, with a scared look on his face. The bird 
burst into song, flooding the lance of the sun with melody. 
Gillespie raised a tremulous face and tear-twinkling 
eyes to the bird. 


60 * 


602 


GILLESPIE 


“ It’s a clean sweep, Chrystal,” he groaned. “ Aw ! 
thon sicht, thon gash sicht ! ” The Butler, with downcast 
eyes, was ploughing a feverish staff -point among the seed. 
“ My hert’s brocken ; there’s nane sae much as left 
to watch the deid. Goad Almichty ! this is a forsaken 
hoose.” In the gloom of the shop, whose front door 
was locked, he turned a piteous face on the Butler. 

“Wait here till I come back. I’ll go for Lonend and 
Mr. Stuart.” 

Gillespie shook his head. 

“ Lonen’ ’ill no’ come.” 

The Butler brought the point of his stick down upon 
the floor. “ Hector will come. Get on your blacks and 
a white shirt.” Did the Laird’s old valet speak there, 
or a man of tender sympathy, offering to grief something 
to do? 

Topsail Janet and Sandy the Fox were in charge of 
the house. Gillespie, taking no notice of them, entered 
his room and glanced at the long, rigid outline beneath 
the sheet, and the pallid, impassive face. This deathly 
stillness isolated him from all the world. The atmosphere 
seemed charged with minute particles of lead, whose load 
rested oppressively on his chest. The room had a pro- 
found depth, a silence that flowed out and mingled with 
immensity, and haunting him at his shoulder was that 
eternal calm on the bed. 

He turned out his best clothes and a white shirt, 
scrupulously obeying the Butler’s directions. He had 
a difficulty with one of his fine boots, for the wound on 
the sole of his right foot was angry. 

Dusk was falling when he had finished dressing. 
With haggard face he passed out in silence before his 
servants, and sought the parlour to watch for Lonend. 
Aimlessly he shuffled about, touching this and that with 
nerveless bands, till he sat down at the window in the 


GILLESPIE 


603 


grey light of the sea and tried to think. Nothing but 
the most trivial things occurred to him. He remembered 
the sleek face of the lawyer, and his thin-lipped, menacing 
leer, as of something which he had seen years ago. He 
put his hand idly in his pocket and discovered there a 
pound note. He knew at the touch it was money. 
He could not remember how it came to be there. It was 
money possessed by his wife, which Eoghan had picked 
up in coppers and small silver coin, and which, when it 
had amounted to one pound sterling, Eoghan had 
converted into a pound note, and in a spirit of tragic 
irony had for safety banked with his father. Gillespie 
pulled a frowning brow of perplexity as his fingers closed 
over the crinkly parchment. Suddenly, with terrible 
clearness, the dead face of his son rose up from its re- 
cumbent place upon the bedroom floor, and swam before 
him in the gloom. He put his hand over his eyes. It 
held the pound note. The tragedy of the lives of father, 
mother, and son met and were centred in that piece of 
paper-money, which could not shut out the appalling 
vision. His son was in the room confronting him ; there 
was blood upon the face ; a great, ragged, red hole gaped 
in the throat ; a frozen stare in his abysmal eyes ; eyes 
mute, and yet, by the might and majesty of death, 
resurgent with condemning tongues. Gillespie crouched 
on the chair, congealed with fear, and strove in vain to 
cry out, but his dry tongue was glued to his palate. A 
vapourish flame wavered in the direction of the door, 
and the room became dark with night. The pound note 
fell from his paralysed fingers, lay a moment on his 
knee; its twitching sent it slowly sliding down. He 
was startled at the little sibilant noise, as the paper 
fluttered to his pained foot, and rustled on to the floor. 
He arose, breathing deeply and steadying himself vainly 
from taking a giddy plunge, lurched into a table. There 


604 


GILLESPIE 


was a crash of glass on the floor. It was Eoghan’s case 
of birds’ eggs. The splintering sound sent Gillespie’s 
heart drumming into his throat, and he recoiled sideways. 

“Good Goad!” he breathed; “a’ things goin’ to 
wrack an’ ruin ? ” In speechless panic he stumbled out 
of the parlour, hands spread out in front of him. The 
judgment of silence had found him. 

This silence of the house unmanned him, and he trailed 
down the stair and passed into the back shop, where he 
lit a candle. Mechanically he began to turn over the 
papers in his desk. His eye fell on a yellowish piece of 
printed paper folded in two. It was a cutting from the 
local newspaper. He picked up his spectacles, and at 
the first glance horror seized him. He remembered it 
now, long forgotten in the dust of a pigeon-hole. 

“ From the results just published of the Examination 
held by the Governors of the Trust for education in the 
Highlands and Islands, we notice with pleasure that one 
of their bursaries has been awarded to Mr. Eoghan 
Strang, a pupil of Brieston Public School, who stood third 
in the list for the County. We heartily congratulate 
Mr. Strang on his success. The bursary is tenable for 
three years, and enables the Bursar to proceed to the 
University. Mr. Strang, who is a young lad of great 
promise, is a son of Mr. Gillespie Strang, a well-known 
merchant and fish curer of Brieston, whose other son, it 
will be remembered, was drowned under exceptionally 
sad circumstances.” 

Gillespie remembered how, on a Saturday night, this 
newspaper had been handed to him across the counter 
by Carmichael, from West Loch Brieston, and how, when 
the shop was closed, he had secretly cut out the 
notice and hoarded it like a treasure. He had felt 
kindly disposed ever since to the West Loch Brieston 
man, and counted it no inconvenience to have sent Topsail 


GILLESPIE 


605 


to his house with a basket on that fatal Hogmanay 
night. Regularly Eoghan had handed over to him 
moieties of that bursary in endorsed cheques — money 
which had gone into the gluttonous business. A clear 
globe of water splashed down on the bleached newspaper- 
cutting, and the sorrow of Gillespie’s soul was heard in 
that forlorn chamber of commerce. 

“ Och ! och ! I had the bonny penny hained for him.” 

He was roused from his Gethsemane by the deep voice 
of the Butler. 

“ Are ye there, Gillespie ? ” 

He hastily thrust the cutting into his waistcoat pocket, 
and blowing out the candle, went out and followed the 
Butler. 

On the stair-head, at the entrance to the passage, lit 
by a lamp on the wall to show the way for the undertaker, 
Gillespie faced Lonend, bull-headed, truculent. All that 
day Lonend had been in a blind rage which, since the 
death of his daughter, had alternated with his grief. 

“ Whaur is my daughter ? ” he snarled. 

Gillespie made a gesture of despair. 

“ By Goad ! a bonny mess you’ve made o’ her ! ” 

“ I’m a lonely man, Lonen’, let me be.” 

Lonend flung on him a look of devilish hatred, curling 
back his lips in a grimace. “ Ye’ll no’ be richt lonely 
till ye’re in hell.” He watched in thick-set malice to 
see the effect of this sting ; but upon Gillespie, confessing 
himself as “ lonely ” to an enemy, such barbarous words 
were powerless to hurt. His eyes simply blinked; and 
Lonend, sick with rancour, and a sour cloud on his face, 
strode from him muttering a curse, to digest his spleen 
in the solemn presence of his dead daughter. 

The Apostle James, the sailmaker, the companion of 
rats in his windy loft, to whom Gillespie had flung now 
and again an alms of work, crept up the stair and 


606 


GILLESPIE 


appeared at the entrance, white-haired, rheumy-eyed, 
famished of face, painfully thin and shrunken, and held 
out his hand to Gillespie. “ May the Lord be gracious 
to you and comfort you; ” and he, too, passed into the 
kitchen, a poor, simple man, with hope in God large in 
his soul. 

Gillespie stood alone in the dimly-lit passage, his mind 
foundered in a grey blank. He was only conscious that 
other men were preparing Eoghan for the grave, and were 
going to take him away from his sight for ever. Could 
this thing be ? His strength ebbed from him at the 
thought. Those terrible events were moving with irre- 
sistible, impetuous speed. His shoulders drooped, he 
bowed his massive head upon his breast, under a load 
of intolerable weariness. 

Tramp ! tramp ! shuffle ! shuffle ! the slow, measured 
footsteps sounded hollow in the close, and scraped at 
the foot of the stair. A cold chill ran down Gillespie’s 
spine, and he shivered as if with ague. The sound of 
voices reached him ; the clatter of feet upon the stair. 
Royal death had given all men the right of free entry. 
Surging out of the darkness on the stair-head, Gillespie 
saw the end of a coffin, and put out impotent hands to 
ward off the sight. The emaciated, tired face of Stevenson 
the joiner, with its wiry, straggling beard, rose up on 
the stair-head out of the darkness, like a face arising out 
of the sea. Gillespie’s huge bulk blocked the passage, 
but the joiner, who did not see him across the coffin, 
pushed on with protruding tongue. The coffin hit 
Gillespie on the shoulder and sent him staggering back 
against the wall, pushed unceremoniously out of the way. 
The sallow, unhealthy face of the undertaker’s man 
appeared at the other end of the coffin. Gillespie heard 
him panting. The coffin went past him as if sailing in 
the air with a life of its own. His eyes, level with its 


GILLESPIE 


607 


top, saw the glitter of the name-plate. The undertaker’s 
man, on Gillespie’s side of the passage, encountered him, 
nodded and whispered with a lisp : “ The thecond ith 
cornin’ behind.” 

The second ! a world of coffins ! 

Gillespie could not tolerate the sight, and stealing back 
to the shop, locked the door. Ignorant that man knows 
not himself, he had received at last some specific know- 
ledge of his soul, from the sight of a coffin. Careless 
always and, finally, utterly neglectful of providing for 
his wife, he was forced now to provide for her this extreme 
shelter. He was learning that things outside himself 
were greater than he. Of the other coffin for his son, 
yet invisible, he did not learn ; he felt, felt that he stood 
barefoot on the red-hot lava which had destroyed his 
house. The trumpets were dumb, and would never 
be blown again. The edifice of marble and gold, which he 
had so painfully reared, would be uninhabited, and for 
ever silent — a house of clay doomed soon to annihilation ; 
though the fates decree that the deeds by which it was 
achieved will remain indestructible — the back of to-day 
being tied with the burden of all the yesterdays. Though 
in that hour Gillespie Strang would, to an observer, 
have appeared cold and calculating, yet it was the coldness 
of snow covering a volcano. As he saw the pride of his 
life take wing and vanish in a whirlwind, mortality made 
him acutely conscious that his will was yet to be made. 
He was in the pitiable position of a man whose life has 
been one long crime to make a fortune of which, now that 
he is childless and friendless, he does not know how to 
dispose. He used to be imperturbable and, so Brieston 
thought on the morning when his fleet was in ashes, of 
iron mould. Only there are hurricanes which destroy 
more things than fleets. Hid he think of it, we can fancy 
him smiling now at his career of scheming, chicanery, 


608 


GILLESPIE 


and lubricity — but what a smile. He had trimmed his 
sail to every wind, and found a lee-shore. His fate 
deserves some pity. He stumbled upon it reluctantly, 
in the height of his ambition, when he was about to 
satisfy his pride by wreaking vengeance, through a tool 
of a lawyer, upon the head of his implacable enemy. He 
had been great in his activities, and in another sphere 
would have played a large part, and affected much more 
than the destinies of a little town. But in such a theatre 
his fall could not have been greater. A giant, perishing 
in a mean hovel, is a more pitiable sight than that of 
the same man dying upon the stage of the world. The 
arrow of destiny rankled in Gillespie’s breast as much as 
if he were expiring with a crown on his head, not because 
his dark genius had suffered defeat, but because he was 
now forced to make a will over the dead body of his son. 
Whoever has sympathy will recognise that he had a 
certain earnestness and vision, no matter the dark 
ways that he travelled, and that many things depended 
on him, and if he shook Brieston, it was with single 
hand. Beneath his tarnish was a lamentable and even 
a wistful love. Over the fierce lightnings that play upon 
his ruin somehow there falls the dews of pity. 

Seated at his desk by candle-light he summoned that 
lamentable love, as he pored upon the photograph of his 
son, and chewed the stump of a pen that had written 
much in blood and tears. Mr. Kennedy had been proud 
of the boy; even the gluttonous Stuart had babbled of 
him. Dumbly, Gillespie stared at the photograph. The 
haunting smile of the face, like a wavering flame of the 
spirit, caught him by the throat. He had never seen 
that smile on the face of the original. On that thin face 
it had a strange elusiveness — beseeching, fleeting, yearn- 
ing ; and suddenly, as by a dagger struck home, Gillespie 
knew the smile — it had shone on his own mother’s face. 


GILLESPIE 


609 


The discovery of this elfish trick of heredity came with 
a shock, and he watched the photograph with that strange 
sense of expectancy that we experience in gazing upon 
the picture of beloved ones who are dead, or vanished 
from our ken. The eyes smiled out on Gillespie’s woe. 
With this son by his side he would cheerfully have faced 
the world; but now he was against the wall facing that 
world — the world that had always hated him — the 
jeering, keeking, whispering, dodging world. A pitiless 
people would crucify him on the cross of obloquy. He 
had led men, had cajoled, trapped, sold, beaten them, 
and now for the first time in his life he wished for a 
friend. He thought of Maclean — the only man in 
Brieston who would not brook his double-dealing, and 
yet treated him frankly man to man. But Gillespie 
discovered that he feared the doctor, and with the 
discovery an immensity of future pain opened and shut 
on his mental vision, as a turbulent sea on a dark night 
is bared by the lightning and vanishes again. Deep 
within his breast there stirred a feeling he had never 
before experienced; it was remote, vague, yet insistent, 
in which he felt comfort. The flinty heart of Gillespie 
was struck by the rod of Heaven ; the Angel of Death 
had passed in the night through the land, and finding 
no blood of sacrifice, in a long life, upon the lintel of his 
door, had entered and taken away his son; but deep 
beneath it all was this vague sense of comfort. Gillespie’s 
heart was stirring to feel after the compassion of God, as 
over his head he heard the muffled sounds of other men 
putting his son into a coffin. He addressed himself to 
making his will, to making at last his sacrifice. 

Mrs. Galbraith, in the company of Topsail Janet, 
who was weeping softly, visited the chambers of the dead, 
and with deft tenderness cut a strand of Eoghan’s dark, 

RR 


610 


GILLESPIE 


lanky hair. She returned to her house in the Back 
Street, and opening the big family Bible, laid the wisp 
of hair as the offering of a broken heart upon the verse : 
“ Be not deceived ; God is not mocked : for whatsoever 
a man soweth, that shall he also rea% Hour after hour 
she sat in sackcloth by that altar, knowing she had been 
bewitched, and that to God alone belongeth vengeance. 
Again and again, in tears, she passionately kissed the hair. 

She saw no one. The grey, sorrowing days passed 
till, on an afternoon of gentle rain, she heard the tramp 
of men passing down the street. They had crossed the 
Square and come up MacCalman’s Lane. The flags of 
the coasting-steamers in the Harbour were at half- 
mast ; the shops closed ; the blinds drawn in the houses ; 
Harbour Street was empty. Brieston looked on in 
silence; children hung on the flanks of the large pro- 
cession; Maclean walked at the very tail-end, chewing 
savagely at his moustache. He was in an ill-fitting black 
coat, and wore a coloured tie. His face was grey and lined. 

Mrs. Galbraith heard them coming in the gentle rain, 
and turning from her attitude of sentinel at the window, 
flung herself on a chair face downwards on the Bible 
opened on a table, her forehead pressed on the lock of 
hair. The sounds of the muffled feet beat as hammers 
on her brain, and she put her fingers in her ears and ground 
her face on the Bible. The head of the procession 
appeared — Gillespie, Lonend, and Chrystal Logan walking 
ahead ; and the coffins on the stretchers slowly filed past 
the window. Their shadow fell upon her room, darkening 
it as with eclipse — an image of the gloom that was come 
upon her soul. Her body was absolutely motionless and 
rigid. Then the shadow passed away from her room. 
But over Mrs. Galbraith’s soul was spread a night more 
desolating and grievous than any shadow or external 
darkness. 


CHAPTER XIX 


Gillespie limped down Harbour Street in his Sunday 
clothes, past the police station to the Quay head, in 
a gauntlet of eyes. 

“ He’s thrang wi’ coffins noo,” sneered Tamar Lusk. 

“ Look at the face o’ him,” nudged the vicious Bent 
Preen. 

“ Damn ye,” roared old Sandy, “ hae ye no’ peety for 
that leakin’ boat ? ” 

Gillespie was now abreast of the Quay head, and Old 
Sandy, quitting the group of men, crossed the road and 
held out his hand. 

The Quay head watched in breathless silence. 

“ It’s a gran’ day, Mr. Strang.” 

“ Ay ! it’s a’ that, Sanny.” But his heart said, “ A 
gran’ day; but my son is dead.” 

Ye’ve got your ain trouble to thole this day, 
Gillespie; I’m sorry for ye.” 

Gillespie took the blue-veined, wrinkled hand. 

“ Thank ye kindly, Sanny, thank ye; ” and Gillespie 
walked on, rocking slightly as he went. Brieston or its 
Quay head had no power to sting. Gillespie was beyond 
that. He was stripped bare of all entanglements, and 
those idols of a day with which his hands had been 
hampered. He looked upon Brieston as upon a desert, 
with vacant, unseeing eyes. Death had resolved all 
things for the dead, and also for Gillespie, this — the 
value that is in things. He was broken, clay upon the 
potter’s wheel, and wished to see his father and be 
reconciled. After that he would deal with Lonend. 

611 


612 


GILLESPIE 


As he drew near to the “ Ghost ” he put up his hand to 
his black tie, futilely arranging it, and cleared his throat 
every few yards he travelled. He looked up at the 
windows, but they were all vacant; and noted that the 
harled wall was rusty. The house had a gaunt aspect; 
sea-bleached and solitary to the beach ; raising its rugged 
front to the whistling winds, and looking out blindly 
upon the grey, empty sea. A house of no resort ; a house 
of silence, save for the jangling of the sign over the 
door. A faint smile came over Gillespie’s face as he 
recognised the sign. The smile redeemed his face, for, 
like the house, his aspect was wizened and gaunt. The 
old familiar creak over the door awakened the past out 
of its sleep, and he became afraid of meeting his father. 
Like a stranger he knocked at the door, and stood facing 
the green-painted wood, waiting. Barbara was in her 
room at the window, in the gable-end on the top-floor, 
staring out on a grey sea full of unrest. Its movements 
were sinuous and stealthy, like those of a great snake 
uncoiling. She watched the quick-changing shadows of 
the clouds on the face of the water as if they were pheno- 
mena of another world. The empty hills beyond, the 
sleeping fishing-boats, with their masts all pointing the 
one way, the distant trees, the strip of road that lost 
itself behind Muir head Farm, as if it had dived down in 
the hurry of some discovery, the cows wandering on 
the hillside towards Lonend among a patchwork of green, 
and the dark whin — all these things she saw as in a 
transmagoria. Her world of reality lay beyond the 
apparent, enclosed within the walls of profound grief. 
Something barbaric in league with death had wrecked 
her life. These were not really cloud-shadows which she 
beheld, but the gloom of a fatality which had ushered her 
into that land of sorrow where men and women wander 
seeking peace, and are given the bitter gift of undying 


GILLESPIE 


613 


remembrance. She was sick of thought, and yet her 
mind went round and round about one thing. As if she 
had been breathed upon by the spirit of the Recording 
Angel, she felt that all the horror of ruin and disaster 
was due to her uncle. She had seen him trail down the 
road to the “ Ghost,” and shuddered as she would at a 
murderer, who had been drawn to gaze once more on 
the fatal spot of his crime. She dared not look upon his 
face within the house. She had seen it from the window, 
and his appearance shocked her — he was hollow-eyed and 
haggard, and for all his size and stoutness, had a strange, 
withered look. The firmness had gone from his flesh ; 
his cheeks were flabby; and over his countenance there 
reigned the mournful air of a disastrous battlefield which, 
once a smiling champagne, has been scorched and fire- 
blackened. Something had gone from him — his alert 
decisiveness, his air of initiative, boldness, and expectation. 
His leonine head was held low, and he stood at the door 
like a great beech blasted by lightning. 

No one came to answer his knock. Poignant misery 
stabbed him to the heart as he put his hand on the handle 
and found it turn in his slack grasp. Surely the son of 
the house might enter unchallenged. So he was used to 
open this door when his mother was alive. Mechanically 
he hung up his hat as if he had come to stay. In that 
corner in the dark of the kitchen-door he used to keep 
his hand-lines ; the place met him as with a blow. He 
remembered how his wife used to plead with him to take 
her to this house with Eoghan in her arms, that the 
breach might be healed; but the five hundred pounds 
loomed up, an insurmountable barrier. He had never 
repaid that money. Now she was dead, and Eoghan 
was dead ; his father lay sick of a “ stroke ” ; and he 
had fifty times five hundred pounds. All that was worth 
striving for was gone. Ah, no ! his father was left. 


614 


GILLESPIE 


He was here for that. If medical skill, the best in Glasgow , 
could help, his money would be freely given. This 
thought brightened Gillespie, and he began ascending 
the stair. His right foot felt on fire. He had been 
shivering all over since the funeral, and thought he must 
have caught a chill at the grave. It had made his neck 
stiff. “ My face feels as hard as airn,” he had said to 
Topsail that morning. He noticed some difficulty in 
swallowing. Certainly his mouth looked hard and set, 
with an unwonted stiffness about its angles. And now, 
as he ascended the stair, his right foot felt on fire. 

On the landing, at the top of the stair, a carved tiller 
was suspended by a brown cord against the wall. He had 
carved that tiller under his father’s directions, and with 
it had learned to steer a boat, under his father’s eye. 
Beneath the stars it had guided the boat home, when his 
father would wrap his own oilskin-coat about him against 
the dawn-wind. He, miserable, had never wrapped 
Eoghan against the cold ; but had sent him beneath the 
smacks, when the tide had ebbed, to scavenge for the 
fragments of coal fallen from the buckets ; had sent him 
on Saturdays and holidays to glean among freezing 
rocks for whelks ; had loaded his head with heavy 
baskets of goods to be delivered to customers, and had 
quarrelled with his wife when she pleaded for the boy. He 
had sent him to College, and sneered at book-learning as 
he sent him. It all came back now like revenge. He 
brought it back, and found the pain sweet. 

Beneath the tiller was a deal table. He opened its 
drawer, an old action which he had by rote. All were 
there — thole-pins, a dog-collar, rabbit-snares. He was 
unable to look upon the ghost of unsullied youth, with 
the slow wrath of outraged manhood upon him. The 
atmosphere of the house was terribly charged with an 
old-world tenderness. He could almost believe his 


GILLESPIE 


615 


patient, uncomplaining mother yet to be in the kitchen, 
knitting those long grey stockings up over the knee for 
her fisherman-husband. Nemesis drew him on, limping 
to the end of the passage, where there was a narrow stair 
of bare wood leading to a low, long room beneath the 
roof — his room, half workshop, half store. Slowly he 
ascended his Via Dolorosa, and came upon the door wide 
open — the sign of utter neglect — betraying at the first 
glance the model of a yacht lying on its side, careened 
for ever, its sails green-mouldered, and an open knife 
beside this other wreck, as he had flung it down. It was 
black-red with rust. 

He leaned hard against the wall, whose dust smudged 
his coat. The overmastering silence which had oppressed 
him in the presence of his dead wife settled again upon 
his soul. Gillespie, in despair, had no tears to shed, and 
could not pray. His heart was withered, and was slowly 
cracking. This room was a grave. Gillespie went out, 
and slowly descended his Via Dolorosa on the way to 
his cross. 

When he was mid-way down the stair Barbara came 
out of a room on the right. Her colour was gone; her 
eyes were large and dark-ringed; her hair was drawn 
tight over her forehead. She looked old — this nun of 
grief — and her face was full of sorrow. She was startled 
at sight of him, and glancing away said, in a cold voice 
of scorn : 

“You have come at last ! ” 

Gillespie, with sunken head, descended the three 
remaining steps, and lifted upon her his drawn face and 
terrible eyes of pain. 

The girl screamed at the sight : “ Uncle ! uncle ! 
you are ill ? ” 

“ Is there where he is ? ” Mournfully he indicated the 
room from which she had stepped. 


616 


GILLESPIE 


“ No,” she replied, her lips trembling convulsively ; 
“ he’s in the room downstairs off the kitchen.” 

Gillespie knew that his father had taken a “ stroke ” ; 
not that it had been followed by another. He took a 
step towards the stair-head. 

“ Would you like to see him, uncle ? ” 

He turned, beseeching pity of the girl in a look. She 
spoke as if his father were a stranger. His tortured eyes 
rested upon her thin, shaking shoulders. Her attitude 
was one of abandonment to grief. To Gillespie the 
atmosphere was charged with dread. He was suddenly 
plunged in a bath of flame. A string seemed sharply 
drawn across his breast and cutting into his heart. He 
feared he was about to die. He tried to breathe deeply, 
and could scarcely open his mouth, which seemed to 
be clamped. Beads of sweat started out on his forehead. 
The shivering seized him again, and an icy coldness 
crept over his body. 

“ Is he no’ any better ? ” He ground out the words. 

“ He’ll — he’ll — not live very long — the doctor says.” 

In the profound silence that followed, the rasping of 
the sign upon the rigging of the house mingled with the 
hard, dry sobbing of the girl, and were followed by 
Gillespie’s spasmodic cry of woe, as Barbara burst into 
a fit of uncontrollable sobbing. 

“ Barbara ! Barbara ! there’s nobody left but me ! ” 
and the heart of Gillespie Strang broke. He gazed at her 
a moment as if bewildered at her tears, and turning, his 
body rigid like a steel wire stretched to snapping point, 
painfully scrambled down the stair to the room off the 
kitchen. 

For the second time within a week he looked on a 
long, white form, marmoreal in its stillness, stretched out 
on a bed — a fragile outline, stiff as if in death, beneath 
the clothes. At the sight, Gillespie felt himself sinking 
into the depths of an unknown condemnation. An 


GILLESPIE 


617 


invisible power of reproach was emanating from that 
stark form and still, unaccusing face, so thin and worn 
that Gillespie scarce recognised it. The cluster of thick 
grey hair was swept back from the fine forehead; the 
mouth, all awry, seemed to have collided with lightning, 
and one hanging eyelid, tainted with blood, to have been 
torn with a claw. There was no sign of life on the bed. 
The eyes were fixed in a glassy stare on the ceiling. 
Gillespie, making strange strangling sounds in his throat, 
approached the bed. 

“ Faither.” 

The eyes slowly came down from the ceiling and 
swung round on the face of the son. 

Gillespie was breathing in quick, little gasps. 

4 4 Faither, I meant to pey ye back wi’ interest at 
five per cent.” 

The face in the pillow remained immobile, and fixed in 
a deep, inviolable calm. 

Gillespie put out his hand in a beseeching gesture. 

“ Are ye hearin’ me, faither ? It’s me, Gillespie, your 
son.” 

There was no response. The vast deep of affliction 
there, remained still and unruffled. It was beyond the 
power of mortal to break that profound quiet. Its 
judgment, the judgment of unearthly silence, had again 
found Gillespie, ringing with a mighty anvil-stroke of 
doom upon his soul the words, “ Too late ! too late ! ” 
He tottered from the bed, casting one long look of anguish 
upon the wearied face sunk in the pillows. In that 
moment he would have given gold and house and gear, 
if only one glimmer of tender recognition would divinely 
light those eyes and sweep across that face, which had 
so often hovered upon him like an angel’s, beneath the 
stars in the open boat upon the sea. But they were 
staring upwards, upwards unswervingly, with glazed look 
upon the ceiling — gazing past Gillespie and the world, 


618 


GILLESPIE 


into the archives that are stored for ever beneath the 
Great White Throne. Gillespie’s face was the face of 
one who had seen undying fear. He took a sharp intake 
of the breath, deep, rending, convulsive ; his arms 
jerked upwards spasmodically, and he fell prone on the 
floor, his body contorted in a spasm. The crash brought 
Barbara and Mrs. Galbraith running. They found 
Gillespie with his teeth firmly clenched, the muscles 
of his neck standing out in high tension, the body half 
bent like a bow. He had lockjaw contracted when he 
had stepped on the broken whisky-bottle which his wife 
had brought from its place of concealment in the refuse 
heap of the washing-house. 

The spasm was of short duration. The help of fisher- 
men, who were passing, was summoned, and Gillespie 
was carried to the bed in the kitchen, where his mother 
had died. Maclean was sent for. Gillespie spoke only 
once, when, with haggard eyes sunk in pits of pain, he 
summoned Mrs. Galbraith, and slowly, with enormous 
difficulty, ground out each word : “ Tell — Lowrie — to 
pey — five hunner — to — my — faither — at five — 

per — cent. — for — twenty — year — to-day — to-day ” 

His eyes were agonised with entreaty. The effort cost 
him another spasm. 

Maclean ordered the room to be darkened, and that no 
one was to speak to Gillespie or make the slightest noise. 
Barbara was prohibited the room. Gillespie was now 
left in absolute silence, in an atmosphere of semi-gloom, 
in the twilight of approaching death, with Mrs. Galbraith, 
the tenderest nurse in the world; and beneath the 
croaking of the sign of the dagger, father and son 
took the Last Journey, the one as in a dream, the other in 
unspeakable torment. 

On the second day Gillespie lay dead, his teeth broken, 
black swellings on his limbs, his eyeballs fixed, glassy, 


GILLESPIE 


619 


and staring as into a damnable abyss. His lips were 
purple and stained with blood-froth. 

Mrs. Galbraith stood at the window, her terrible vigil 
done, her heart purged and purified, with her back to the 
bed. Across the Harbour she could see in the clear, 
frosty day, a ploughman ploughing in the Laigh Park 
of the farm which Galbraith and his people had tenanted 
for generations. The squawking of a cloud of gulls 
behind the plough floated across the Harbour on the 
still air. At the sound which, perhaps, stirred some 
memory of the sea, the glazed eyes of old Mr. Strang 
turned from the ceiling to the window. His wife was dead ; 
dead was his son in the kitchen ; dead were his grand- 
children ; and he, as borne on a tide of sleep, was slipping 
into the shadows. The sign above the door was at peace 
in the windless air. Passion and greed, love and dreams, 
lust and madness, were all vanquished, were all vanished ; 
grief and shame, yearning and hope, were all at rest; 
faces had faded away; things dissolved; nothing was 
left but the earth, about to renew life at the hands of 
another transitory ploughman. With a long, deep sigh 
old Mr. Strang closed his eyes in the House of Ghosts, 
to meet the everlasting silence, and look into the things 
of eternal rest. The sunset flamed along the sea and 
hung out banners in the heavens. It flooded the “ Ghost ” 
with golden light. It shone upon the features of Gillespie, 
exposed in a ghastly grin. It irradiated the still, white 
face of old Mr. Strang. 

“ Earth to earth, dust to dust,” murmured Mrs. 
Galbraith, as she shook the tears from her eyes. The 
ploughman on Muirhead Farm went on ploughing the 
lea, ministering to the faith that is imperishable in the 
breast of man. 


THE END 


Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, 

BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E.. 
AND BUNGAY. SUFFOLK. 




000220^7015 



